The Tower Spring 2025

THE TOWER

ART AND LITERARY MAGAZINE

Copyright © 2025

The Tower

University of Minnesota
Department of English
112 Pillsbury Hall

310 Pillsbury Drive SE
Minneapolis, MN 55455

thetower@umn.edu

Printed by Johnson Litho Graphics, Eau Claire, WI
Cover art: REDEFINING THE MIRROR, Sheena Vang, acrylic on canvas

The Tower is the art and literary magazine of the University of Minnesota, Twin
Cities. We publish the best in art and creative writing by undergraduate students in
the state of Minnesota.

We would like to thank the Department of English and Huntington Bank for their
generosity and support.

ENGLISH

(2) Huntington Bank

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

Humanity has historically tiptoed the line between the physical world and the
virtual realm. Recently, the lines between these spaces have become increasingly
blurred, and our experience as humans has been irrevocably altered. ‘This is to say,
now, more than ever, artists are experiencing the effects of this shift, and asking
themselves, what is real, and what is not? In this edition of Zhe Tower, we asked our
contributing artists, writers, and poets: Where do you draw the line between “Virtual
/ Reality”? Are these experiences mutually exclusive?

In response to our call to creatives in higher education across Minnesota, we
heard the voices of humanity scream out in appreciation of Reality—our physical,
here and now. These pages echo their passion for nature, friendship, and family. Our
contributors have also opened the door to the world of the Virtual—a new state of
existence brought forth by technology. They have explored their own conceived reali-
ties of AI, video games, and our relationships with and through screens.

In support of the creative work of our contributors is the steadfast dedication
of the students who put together this edition of Zhe Tower. Though we assumed a
management role and made decisions when the time came, every member of our
team—from our editors and copyeditors to our designers and artists—brought to life
an aesthetic of what is real, what is virtual, what we cannot say for sure is either, and
where we draw the line (if any) between the two.

We hope this magazine represents this moment in time, this epochal shift—where
art exists in and between the ethereal and the material. Let this be a physical reminder
that we were here, that these feelings and experiences were real, before we slip further
into the world of the virtual.

Sincerely,
[allo Bacar iy} | K (oda)
Tallulah Bacon Joshua Kloss

THE TOWER 2025 STAFF

Editor-in-Chief
Tallulah Bacon

Deputy Editor-in-Chief
Joshua Kloss

Managing Director

Saga Jakupcak

Managing Editor
Victor Stoesz

Art Director
Ciara Weber

Design Director
Ava Boytim

Marketing Team
Ava Boytim
Ciara Weber
Joshua Kloss
Kiera DeGroot
Lily Zenner

Chief Copyeditor

Jessica Claus

Copyeditors
Alex Rodriguez
Lily Zenner
Zaine Blazei

Editorial Associates
Arlette Vazquez Zhanay
Bianca Llerena

Emma Young

Fiction Editors
Emalyn Goodart
Jennifer Page
Mar Nicholson

Nonfiction Editor
Cassidy Maneval

Poetry Editors
Esper Garcia
Kiera DeGroot
Philip Toweh

Instructor & Advisor
Jake Lancaster

CONTENTS

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returning to the blue mountains - Gavia Boyden....s::nnnieeinnnennneeennT3
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It Happened Last Night - Lily Tuttle...nnnmnninnnnmmnnnnnnnnneneennnB
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AI PLAYBOY Sheniali DeSilva..sssosssssssesnsnsnnstnsestnstntsssnsensesnsnsne 22
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THIS SERVES AS YOUR NOTICE

William Farley

Dear Mx. Alex Levron,

This serves as your notice that we have declined your request for an
appeal on the grounds of your extenuating circumstances. We un-
derstand that you were hospitalized during the window in which we
requested comment from you in your case, but out of a deep sense
of equity and fairness, we do not allow for exceptions in the appeals
procedure. You should consider this matter closed.

As you have mentioned your disability as a source for these exten-
uating circumstances, | must remind you that, per our Mandatory
Medical Withdrawal Policy, we may reassess your continued partici-
pation in the university community.

However, you can rest assured that neither the decision to review
your continued participation in the university community, nor the
above decision, were made based on speculation, stereotypes,
generalizations, or in an arbitrary manner.

Yours in Solidarity,

Dr. Aaron T. Blake, Esq. PhD the/him/nis»*t

(123)-456-7890 | Linkedln.com/DrAaronTBlakeEsq
231 Morrill Hall | 432 Pope St SE | Woodside, MN 55105
Assistant Vice President for Administrative Appeals,

Office of Student Affairs

Director of Classroom Inclusivity, Office of Student Affairs
Y=" Academic Advisor, Labor Relations Management Minor

Associate Professor of Business Administration, School

of Business & Entrepreneurship

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—
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—
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Meee Chair, President’s Committee on Promotion of Academic
WITH THE WORK oo
~ Freedom & Scholarly Inclusivity

ALLYSHIP
JOURNEY

Board of Directors of the Allyship Foundation | Building
= Understanding of Difference & Driving Cohesive
Professional Communities

Author of Falling in Love with the Work

Follow my substack:

DrAaronTBlakeEsq.Substack.com

*Why share pronouns? Because not sharing them perpetuates harmful
assumptions about the knowability of someone else’s gender(s). Learn
more about pronouns at
https://uwm.edu/Igbtrc/qa_faqs/what-are-some-commonly-used-
pronouns

/t You can learn more about my specific gender construction here
en.pronouns.page/@DrAaroniBlakeEsq

Schedule an Appointment with Me:

Advising appointments by email only

Office Hours for Students in My Classes Only: Mondays 8:30-9:30 am,
in-person only

Accommodation Needs:

We are committed to providing a comfortable, inclusive, and respect-
ful environment for all members of our community. If there is informa-
tion you feel would be helpful for us fo know, including disability or
other accommodation needs, | invite you To share it with me directly,
or let the front desk know when you schedule an appointment.

Basic Needs Resource Document:

Students facing basic needs insecurity are valid, worthy, and de-
serving of help. Please know that you are not alone, and there are
resources available. You can find helpful information and assistance
here.

Academic Support Resources:

Needing academic support is completely normal and valid—many
students face challenges not because of their abilities, but due to
systemic barriers and societal injustices perpetuated within academic

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environments. Whether you're navigating structural inequities, strug-
gling with a specific subject, or feeling overwhelmed, there are re-
sources to help. Explore academic support options here, and know
that seeking help is a powerful way to advocate for yourself. General
campus resources can be found here.

Mental Health Matters

Your mental health is just as important as your academic success,
and it’s okay to ask for helo when you need it. Many students face
stress, anxiety, or other challenges, offen made worse by societal pres-
sures and inequities that can feel overwhelming in academic spaces.
You are not alone, and there are resources available to support you.
Explore mental health services and tools here, and remember that
prioritizing your well-being is not only valid but essential.

Diversity is our Strength

Our community thrives on diversity, and each person’s unique back-
ground, experiences, and perspectives enrich our shared environ-
ment. Acknowledging and addressing systemic inequities that affect
marginalized groups is essential to building an inclusive and equitable
space for all. We encourage everyone to celebrate their identity,
advocate for equity, and engage with resources designed to support
and uplift underrepresented communities. Learn more about diversity
and inclusion initiatives here and how we can continue growing to-
gether.

Academic Integrity

Promoting academic integrity is crucial for fostering a fair and equi-
table learning environment for all students. It’s important to recognize
that upholding honesty in your work also means actively challenging
the systemic barriers and biases that affect marginalized communities
in academia.

This includes acknowledging the academic work of black, brown,
womxn, LGBTQ, and marginalized people that often goes overlooked.
Academic integrity is about respect for all voices and knowledge—
learn more about academic standards here.

Consider the Environment Before Printing

Environmentalism is not only about protecting the planet, but also
about addressing the systemic inequalities that disoroportionately
impact marginalized communities. Environmental racism refers to the

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way low-income communities and communities of color offen bear
the brunt of pollution, climate change, and environmental degrada-
tion. It’s crucial that we work toward sustainability and justice for alll,
ensuring that everyone has access to a healthy environment. Learn
more about environmental justice and how you can make a differ-
ence here.

Build Community & Solidarity

Finding community is crucial for navigating the academic journey,
especially in soaces where systemic inequities can create additional
challenges. A strong, supportive community helps provide the resil-
ience and belonging needed to succeed, offering both solidarity and
resources to overcome obstacles. As your academic advisor, | en-
courage you to seek out communities that affirm your identity, ad-
vocate for justice, and uplift one another in the face of adversity. You
are not alone in this journey. You can find resources here.

Land, Water, Plants, Sky, and Stars Acknowledgment

|acknowledge that Woodside College stands on the unceded land
of Mini Séta Makhdéche, the homelands of the Dakhéta Oydte & Ojib-
we. This acknowledgment is only one step within the process of restor-
ative justice which must be followed up with through action centered
on the voices and needs of indigenous peoples.

Educate Yourself

Understanding and addressing injustice is a vital part of creating a
more equitable world. | encourage you to educate yourself about
systemic inequalities and their impact on marginalized communities.
Learning is the first step toward meaningful change. Explore resources
and tools to deepen your understanding and take action here.

PHANTOM LOVE

DANIELLE GALLUS

When the air is steady and the dreams come weary.
A how! will sound.

The hour of the wolf,

Awoken ready,

Awoken parlous.

Why ever assume our archfiend has come to save?

A phantom love, captioned only by a grave.

Where the tower becomes secluded,

Where the oculus, the one true eye, is found,

Will you in due time, escape ruins, become crowned?

Air begins to twist, its hands unclench, now holding up deathly daggers.
It’s when you see im, Carved and craving.
Do you, sweet slivered soul, really need saving?

Spires sharp,

You are vaulted too.
An ill-fated thing,
holding onto last gasps.

The clock chimes, for it is time. An end. You will sink,
You will descend.

17

FICTION

o-oo-ocao

—
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THE NIGHT FLOORS

DJ SCHEELE

On the ninth floor of the Bellerose apartment building, the clocks tick backwards.
6:45 PM

As she escaped the city streets, Harriet exhaled a breath that had been caught
in her chest for days. Golden rays poured through the windows, pitching long lazy
shadows on the hardwood of the lobby. Welcome back. She crossed to the stairway and
started up the flight. The maroon carpet wrinkled under her boots. The wallpaper
simmered. The building hummed in excitement.

She stopped at the third floor and stepped into a barren hallway. A single narrow
corridor, five doors to a side. Their numbers faded and cracked: 301, 310, 302, 309-
She stopped at 303. Inside the peephole, a tiny kaleidoscope of particles danced.
She grasped the handle, felt its warm bronze finish, and pushed open the door to a
crumbling apartment.

Mold crept in every corner, dust shrouded every surface. A shattered grandfather
clock decayed against the back wall. A moth-eaten red sofa stood in the center of the
room, stained by the sun. But, what really commanded attention, were the clusters of
candles spotting the floor. Each group of waxy warts were burnt down to their wicks.
‘They huddled together in yellowing stacks, waiting for their turn to glow again. Elec-
tricity in the Bellerose had been shut off for years.

Last time, Harriet left the window open to let in fresh city air, but the festering
odor persisted. That greasy must collected on her skin, a mixture of pus and honey.
‘The breeze pushed and pulled on floating specks suspended in the air. A dreary inhale
and exhale of an ancient being. Despite its nauseating presentation, the room held a
quiet comfort. Just how I left it, she thought.

Harriet opened the bathroom door. Its interior matched brilliantly with the rest
of the home. She twisted the faucet. It sputtered at first, spitting out a brownish bile,
before clearing up to something similar to water. She stoppered the sink and crossed
to the window as it filled.

Outside, the city moaned. Millions of souls wandered aimlessly: a couple rush-
ing to catch their bus; an old man struggling to stand from a bench; a sea of bodies
spilling out from the subway; a child, alone, trying to cross the bustling street. From
somewhere down the block, a siren echoed. Nothing out there is more real than whats
in here.

6

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FICTION

Harriet twisted the tap and the water ceased. A cool, cloudy mystery. She tied her
hair into a tight bun and took off her jacket. The water swirled. Harriet looked into
the mirror. Whose eyes are these? she wondered. Whose nose? Whose lips? She looked so
tired. She gripped each side of the countertop. Only a moment. She dunked her face
into the sink. Water splashed over the edge, soaking her socks and pooling on the
tiled floor. The clocks switched—

7:00 PM

Harriet inhaled as hard as possible. Water ripped through her lungs like a dull
razor. She forced a second breath, a violent solid mass moving through her fragile air-
ways, scraping its own channel. She needed to vomit: the water wanted out. It leaked
through her nose. Her heartbeat pounded in the corner of her vision. She sucked
down another mouthful of water. A merciful black crept through her mind, dulling
her senses, numbing the agony...and just before consciousness gave way, warm hands
passed over her shoulders and guided her from the sink.

Everything was rose and lilac. The figure placed Harriet on a cushion of satin.
Her vision was a wash of watercolor. Burgundy rugs and ornate candelabras and lush
bouquets. On the wall hung Zhe Birth of Venus, surrounded by a golden frame. She
slipped in and out of the world. Her eyes rose and fell. Time was a vast sea and she
floated on the current. Sunlight sparkled upon the water.

Finally, she awoke. The grandfather clock rang—

MIDNIGHT

Before her eyes were even open, she heard the music. It bled through the ceiling,
coming from above. A soft clarinet sang the opening to George Gershwin’s “Rhapso-
dy in Blue.” The melody warbled in her ears. She stood as if picked up by the notes
themselves. A smile melted onto her face. Unlatching the front door, the apartment
opened to an elevator. Harriet stepped inside. The machine took off; it already knew
where to go.

Harriet’s vermillion gown looked particularly lovely that night. It shimmered with
every swish. As she ascended, the symphony grew louder. Art-deco designs adorned
the walls—twinkling with the music as it reverberated down the elevator shaft. Antici-
pation built in Harriet’s throat. The elevator vibrated. She fluttered her eyelashes and
felt the weight of mascara. The machine stopped with a chime: Floor Nine. “Rhapso-
dy’s” low brass thundered a welcoming chord. The door opened.

“Good evening, Miss,” said the bellhop, “We are so glad you could join us.” The
bellhop was a small gentleman in an extremely dapper tuxedo. He wore a toothy
smile that appeared bigger than possible. Harriet took his gloved hand and the two
broke out in a run.

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He guided her through halls of celebration. Streamers twirled through the air.
Gold balloons hovered about the floor. Laughter and clinking glasses filled the twist-
ing maze of carpet and shining tungsten bulbs. All of Harriet’s friends beamed at her
around corners and through framed windows:

“Welcome, once again.”

“How do you do?”

“You look absolutely dashing.”

“The Host is so pleased you will be joining us tonight.”

A familiar sunny sweetness enveloped her. Her resolve began to thaw. Inhibitions
discarded, left on floor three. The bellhop stopped abruptly, as did “Rhapsody in
Blue.” They stood before the grand entrance to the ballroom: two massive mahogany
doors. The bellhop turned, tears welling in his eyes, “The Host has been waiting so
long for your return, Miss.”

He pulled open the left door with a bow. Light spilled out, extending its hand to
the guest of honor. The golden glow that she longed for; the buzzing numbness that
washed away everything cold and ugly. Harriet thanked the bellhop with a curtsy,
then entered.

An eruption of sound and color greeted her. A band ignited in the corner. Wait-
ers rushed about with trays of warm desserts and fresh pastries, chilled drinks with
salted rims, spiral garnishes, and sculpted ice. The enormous room contained an open
wooden floor where couples swayed. Tables of refreshments lined the walls. Shimmer-
ing lights illuminated the dance floor and candles burned at intimate tables. Harriet
was overcome by the sensations, taking in the spectacle. She couldn't focus on any
particular thing—it was all too marvelous, too wonderful. The lights, the music, the
decor, the—

“Excuse me, Miss. Could I have this dance?”

A voice from behind. Harriet nodded. Without a second word, strong arms
whisked her away as the band struck up a waltz. She spun and glided about the floor
as her partner confidently guided her through the room. Their soft skin brushed hotly
against hers. The two dominated with flourish and finesse. Harriet couldn’t resist
a smile. Her partner laughed; she followed suit. The ballroom crescendoed into a
cacophony of cheers. In a final punctuated move, Harriet spun three revolutions and
dropped into a chair, expertly placed by her partner just as the music rang out its final
chord. Applause. /¢s all still here. Thank you, oh god, thank you.

As the evening faded and the clocks began to steal time, Harriet drank, ate, and
told stories with friends. She dined on sweet and savory flavors that mingled about
her tongue: succulent meats, steaming vegetables, fluffy cakes. Harriet’s dancing

FICTION

partner sat to her left, gunning her gorgeous glances throughout the night. It was all
so perfectly planned.

But of course, just as summer gives way to fall. Trees shed their leaves. Rain turns
to snow. Ice melts in the sun. And flowers are born anew. Time always slipped away
when Harriet wasn't looking. It seemed the same part of her mind that feared, ob-
sessed, and worried was also in charge of temporal perception. So, as it blurred, so did
time.

The clock ticked backwards and the night drew thin. A friend told a joke. The
table burst into laughter. Then—

7:00 PM

‘The world turned over. Everyone froze. Harriet was left laughing in a room of
silence. She looked at her partner; they sat unblinking, shivering slightly. Already? She
pushed up from the table and started for the ballroom doors. Dozens of cautious eyes
followed her, pretending to be invisible.

A door creaked from behind. Harriet spun around. A presence swished in, veiled
in darkness. Sharp shadows and muted colors followed. And then, a voice—bottomless
and acidic—whispered in her ear.

“Tt’s been so long, Harriet.”

His hand enveloped her shoulder, the grip unrelenting. Her energy waned as a
wave of frost descended through her body. The room flickered; her eyelids drooped.
Suddenly, his grip loosened. Seizing the opportunity, Harriet twisted violently, shak-
ing from the grasp. Ready to bolt toward the exit, Harriet glanced over her shoulder,
but saw nothing.

“Silly girl.”

‘The hand returned, squeezing tighter as long fingers crept towards her neck. They
pressed against blood vessels, muting the flow of oxygen to her brain. He clutched her
earring with another hand, his bony finger caressing the glimmering emerald. Before
long, helium began to enter her head. The world felt far away. Harriet was pulled
backward on a string. It slowly tugged at the nape of her neck, widening her percep-
tion. Reality played at half speed. A light caught Harriet’s dazed attention. It blinked
off and on. Off and on. Off and on. Finally, from a distance, he spoke.

“Harriet, this is all mine. You know that.”

Darkness passed over her vision for a moment. With the return of light, Harriet
saw the world for what it had always been: a theater of puppets frozen in mechani-
cal postures. Synthetic hearts thundering away in hollow shells. Dizzying lights and
molding plates of rotten food. A band of grating noise. It was all piercing and unfa-
miliar.

“If you want to play along, don’t make me wait forever.”

pet

o> 6-— o05".c)

N
ial

FICTION

oS=+= o-— o0 oc

In an instant, a violent gust of wind tore from the ballroom. Glasses rattled, fab-
ric rippled, chandeliers swayed. The Host exited. The room returned to the brilliance
she knew.

Harriet looked at the clock:

6:52 PM

A wet, stifled sob arose from the corner of the ballroom. It was the bellhop.
Despite his efforts to contain it, a high-pitched wail forced its way out through his
mouth, eyes, and nose. He was doubled over, no bigger than a toddler. Harriet slowly
backed towards the door, watching the poor man. His body shook with each ragged
breath. Emotion tore out of him on its own accord. Harriet bumped into the door.

A hollow thud echoed throughout the room. The crying stopped and the bellhop

turned. Puffy red eyes and a snotty nose met her, yet he still wore a magnificent smile.

“Could I interest you in some refreshments, Madam? It’s really quite early. No
need to leave yet.” The man rose and slunk toward her. “The celebration has just be-
gun, and everyone is so happy you are here.” Every party-goer stared in her direction,
all with a deadpan loathing behind their features. “Please, sit back down. There is no
reason to leave,” continued the bellhop, wiping away snot. Harriet reached for the
door.

Tears poured from the man, but there was something else. His face itself seemed
to melt. The skin sagged and ran down his chin, then his vest, splashing onto the
floor. The bellhop held his face, trying to save his features from washing away. The
once kind faces of her friends and lovers also began to seep into grotesque, fleshy
versions of what they once were.

Harriet pulled open the door and left.

“Wait!” called the bellhop, as his steps advanced from behind, the facade slipping.

“Don't-don't go! Look what youre doing to us, you-you BITCH!”
6:49 PM

As she stumbled down the hall, her gown began to itch. The feeling crept slowly
throughout her body like a swarm of beetles skittering along her skin. It was unstop-
pable; twitching against every nerve. Harriet scratched at her arms and legs in vain.
Behind her, the party-goers followed in ravenous pursuit.

“Stop, please! Don't leave...” the bellhop whined through his sloppy mess of a
mouth. The group rounded a corner. Harriet tried to run, but her limbs wouldn't
cooperate. The itch was so severe her muscles spasmed, desperately relearning how to
walk. She scratched and tore at her arms and chest and legs and neck, splitting open
her fragile skin. Even as hot blood poured out of her wounds, the itch only intensi-

fied.

FICTION

6:47 PM

Harriet continued down the unending hallways, raking nails against her body
as the crowd snarled. Streamers and balloons obscured the path ahead and condensed
in the narrowing hall. Faces melting like wax appeared in doorways and windows.

“Help us, oh god, help us...”

“Please! Please don’t go!”

“You're killing us!”

The cries echoed in her mind as the itch commanded her senses. Adrenaline
coursed through her veins, offering one last push. She rounded a corner and there it
was: the elevator. She tore down the hall, blocking out the screams, the suffocating
balloons, the itch. In a final effort to stop her, the walls closed in. Balloons popped
like gunshots in her ears. Bodies crunched together behind her. She fought against
the friction as the hall squeezed, begging her to stay. The pressure forced air from her
lungs. Blood built behind her eyes. She was an overstuffed doll, ready to burst at the
seams.

Just before her chest collapsed, Harriet tumbled into the elevator.

6:45 PM

Breathe. Just breathe. She closed her eyes and let her heartbeat steady. The itch
subsided. The cries of agony faded. Harriet turned, expecting to see a solid wall, but
she was greeted by the hallway; quiet, untouched. The bellhop stood at the end of
the passage with wide eyes, like a child. His face was practically gone. He blinked. An
eyelid dripped. Then, he crumpled, splattering onto the carpet. The door closed.

‘The elevator lazily rumbled along as Harriet descended from floor nine. Lights
hummed a mundane melody, and the world stood still. With each floor she passed,
relief blanketed her mind. Harriet never realized how exhausted she was. Until now,
being tired wasn’t an option. She sat on the floor, hugging herself and taking in the
much needed calm. Then, however, something happened that had never happened
before.

The elevator stopped.

The lights flickered for an instant, as a familiar darkness cascaded upon her. The
room blurred into a plane of hazy shadow, a fuzzy gray that stretched to the horizon.
Slowly, images of street lamps, dim buildings, stars, and clouds fused into the scene,
all in monochrome contrast. She sat on a bench, in the ghost of a city. Someone
spoke.

“Baby, you can't keep doing this.”

Harriet didn’t turn, she already knew who it was.

“I know you need this. But, please be more careful.”

pbk

i)
Oo

FICTION

ooog}-—-oa00c0

NO
aN

Harriet exhaled a cloud of vapor that floated into the atmosphere.

“You say ‘never again, but we both know that’s impossible.”

The duality of The Host never quite made sense to her.

“See you soon, Harriet.”

Street lights faded and the world folded in on itself. Skyscrapers shrunk to tele-
phone booths, streetlights became candles. It all happened so fast. Harriet tried to
stand, but her legs gave out. She fell forward toward the concrete. Air rushed past her
ears, the solid ground approaching. She braced for impact, but as her nose connected
with the sidewalk... she passed right through.

Harriet fell inside an endless nothing, void of air or light or warmth. Were her
eyes open or closed? Nausea crept its way into her throat, a swelling hot pressure. She
plummeted, end over end, unsure when she would hit the ground or if she would
ever stop descending. What does one do when presented with infinity?

Suddenly, she snapped, as if a rope tied around her waist finally ran out of slack.
Her body contorted, then she was back.

12:00 AM

Harriet vomited up cloudy sink water and collapsed to the grimy bathroom floor.
The first thing she heard was the city: droning, alive. She felt like a washcloth wrung
dry, twisted and hollow. Sweat stains covered her jeans and torn flannel; her hair,
broken free from the bun, was matted in gnarled patches. The door to the main room

was ajar, revealing the city’s fluorescent glow through the window, which lingered

upon the patchy popcorn ceiling. [t had never been this violent.
12:01 AM

A siren wailed in the streets below. The noise ricocheted off buildings, reach-
ing high into the inky night. Placing a hand on the tub for support, Harriet stood,
shaking, and crossed to the open window. The siren had no visible origin. It was a
constant of the city, as vital as the streetlights and the vines clinging to broken brick
walls, the glare of apartment windows, the smell of trash wafting in waves, the honk-
ing horns, and the people. The many people. It was a wailing that, no matter how
long, never seemed to vanish.
12:02 AM

Harriet trudged to the moth-eaten couch and curled up on it. Her head
drummed a swirling stew of emotion that bubbled and burned. She let the sweet mer-
cy of sleep take her away.
12:03 AM
12:04 AM
12:05 AM

and on...

UNTITLED 4
Soleil Anthony
mixed media

FICTION

STITCH BY STITCH

MADELYN VALENTO

In a world of pieces, parts, and magic, Seven was born.

Seven was the seventh of seven, the last to be created, and the finest piece of work
Dr. Mirney had ever made.

Seven was made of nine parts. Nine that they knew of, at least. It was painful to
run their hands down their legs, achingly far, the effort stretching at stitches, fingers
tracing the outline of angered seams. Maybe, they thought, there was more inside,
but Mirney would never tell.

There was no shortage of parts in the world. The charnel houses and morgues
were filled to the brim and poorly patrolled, so it was easy for Mirney to sneak in,
again and again, for One through Six, all of whom Dr. Mirney spoke poorly of,
lamenting what they could’ve been. Seven had never met the six before them, and
Mirney was loath to speak of them in a way that would quell the curious beating of
Seven’s heart.

What Seven knew of their siblings was as little as it was sad. One didn’t live long
after creation—a necropsy had revealed a pocked skull that Mirney had missed, indic-
ative of tuberculosis, which had blasted through the lower streets only months before.

After that, Dr. Mirney knew he had to be more careful about the parts he picked.
He'd only look for the freshest of bodies, hauling them back to his lab in the dead of
night to ensure they'd be the best match. Circumstances still forced him to take the
bodies from the lower streets—the uppers were more protective of their dead, har-
vesting what they could of their post-mortem magic and burning the rest.

With each failure, Mirney withdrew further into his madness and mutterings. He
refused to tell Seven about Five and Six, the pain of their losses too fresh.

For Seven, Mirney knew he needed to get creative. The bodies of the unwant-
ed would still have to do—it was all he had access to—so he started to watch. He
roamed the streets at night, noting where the Ferrymen grabbed the bodies from,
memorizing faces and establishments. Dr. Mirney would trail the Ferrymen and
watch as they dumped cart after cart of bodies that no one was coming to collect.
‘Then, in the quiet seclusion of the night, he'd sort through the bodies with at least
some idea of who his parts were coming from.

It took months. It wasn’t easy to preserve body parts, either. Ice was expensive and

N
N

FICTION

ono S——-0 0 o

NO
(ee)

Dr. Mirney was, to most people, unemployed. His jobs came few and far between but
paid well when they did.

Between jobs, he sat with Seven.

Mirney’s lab—Seven’s world—consisted of four stained walls, locked cabinets,
and a metal worktable bolted to the floor in the center of the room. It was there that
Seven sat, slept, ate, and thought, memorizing every inch of the room. Every growing
crack in the ceiling, every label on the bottles tucked cautiously behind glass cabinets,
every muffled laugh from children far outside.

Occasionally, perhaps when the guilt began to eat away at him, Mirney would
drop off books for Seven. The Wolf Around the Way. Nettle’s Adventures in Calafinax:
Volume I. A Beginner's Biography of the Peoples of Pindry.

Eventually, though, the words ran out, and Seven was again left waiting for their
maker’s return.

“Tt ll be months before I even think of letting you outside,” Mirney said, running
reverent hands over Seven’s body, checking his handiwork. “Your limbs can reject you
at any time in the months after surgery. I can’t take that risk. If you're here with me, I
can check on you every day.”

Seven cleared their throat, and Mirney handed them a glass of water before they
could speak. He waited for them to sip before accepting the glass back and resuming
his work.

“Can I look in the mirror today?”

‘The mirror, which Seven knew of only from the books Mirney brought them,
was a fantastical thing, a piece of forbidden knowledge that Mirney would've rather
stayed a secret. The first time Seven had asked, Mirney had stumbled through a lie,
claiming that mirrors were luxuries that men like himself could not afford.

This time, familiar with the question, Mirney’s hands only slowed, caressing the
same tender spot above the stitches on Seven’s outer knee.

He looked at Seven’s face, and they could not meet his eyes. Mirney took Seven’s
chin in hand, turning it to the left and right, taking in every blemish and blush. “I
don’t want you to be frightened,” he told them. “I think youre the most beautiful
thing I’ve ever seen. Your skin shines, even in this light. And your hair,” he paused,
thumbing a curl, “it frames your face perfectly. Eyes like stained glass, broken into all
these little colors.”

Seven looked up and met Mirney’s gaze. His eyes were a plain brown. If they
tried hard enough, they swore they could see themselves—a faint shape, distorted and
sullen, in the reflection there. It wasn’t enough.

“Next time I'll bring a mirror, okay?” Mirney told them. Seven knew he would
not.

FICTION

‘The next time came, and all Mirney brought with him was a deep frown.

“Your leg doesn’t look so good,” he told Seven. They knew. The pain coming from
the distended stitches right below their knee was white hot. They could barely move
the limb for fear it would fall clean off, severing bone and all.

“Lay back and I'll look at it,” he instructed Seven. With little other choice, they
followed.

The table on which they'd been born—created, sewn, constructed—was cold,
hard metal. It bit at Seven’s bare skin, which was everywhere. Mirney wanted easy ac-
cess, nothing to interfere with the healing process, nothing to pull or snag or irritate.
At most, Seven was allowed a loose outer robe, a blanket to pull tight around them-
selves on the colder nights spent in the lab. The lights above the table blinded Seven,
so they closed their eyes and let Mirney’s puttering, the sounds of him grabbing gauze
and antiseptic and tweezers, drown out the panic that was bubbling up their throat.

“Tell me about the leg,” Seven spoke.

“T think it’s rejecting,” Mirney answered. Seven could feel the cautious wipe of
gauze over the wound, the antiseptic stinging, working.

“No,” Seven stopped him. “Who's it from?”

‘The wiping stopped. Started again. Mirney heaved a sigh, breath ghosting over
Seven’s sensitive skin. “Why do you want to know?”

“T feel,” Seven swallowed. “Strange. It’s like I can feel them all separately. And I
don't know which parts of me are me. I want to know.”

“The others asked too,” Mirney answered. In their head, Seven could picture six
bodies, bleak figures, mostly shapeless, amalgamations of lives just as Seven was. “And
Ive never been able to come up with an answer.”

“Why not the truth?” Seven asked.

Distantly, Mirney brought his scissors to Seven’s knee, snipping a stitch. “It’s an
ugly one.”

Seven drew in a breath. They wanted the pain to be over, for the bright lights of
the lab to be switched with the warmth of the sun, the hard table beneath them trad-
ed for a bed of grass. “An ugly truth for what you say is a beautiful thing. Is that not
what youd consider a success? Am I not your greatest creation?”

Instead of answering, Mirney moved to cut another stitch. Seven grabbed his
wrist, stopping him. ‘The strength in their grip was impossible, and a chill spread
down Mirney’s arm like frost in the night.

Mirney sighed. “Ill put the scissors down.”

Seven released their grip and motioned for Mirney to continue. “I remember
every single one. Every person I’ve ever brought back here and made anew.”

—pbzt

N
\S

FICTION

Anew.

“This leg?” Mirney said. “You really want to know where it came from? So you
can look in the mirror and know who died for you?”

The leg in question seemed to pulse at the mention of its previous owner. That,
or the infection was flaring up.

Seven bit down their remark, straining to keep from grabbing at Mirney again,
and answered, “Yes.”

“A whore on Bremont Street. Pretty, with a mole under her eye. I don’t know
what killed her but she was of no use to anyone dead. So I took her.”

‘The way he spoke of the woman wasn't demeaning, but straightforward. Clinical.
She really was nothing more to him than a body. Seven eyed the row of stitches where
Mirney had been operating. That was where the heat radiated from, where it crawled
out the cracks and begged to be made well.

“Tm sure youre going to ask about this one next,” Mirney said before Seven
could speak, motioning to their other leg, where the stitches were higher, above the
kneecap, where there was more muscle and hair. “Teenage boy. Killed while messing
around with his friends after they'd just gotten into the Guard. Upper body injuries
only. Not a perfect match to the other leg, I know, but the best I could do. You might
walk with a limp for a while, but there’s nothing that can’t be fixed.”

That leg, too, ignited with feeling, a wave of warmth creeping from toe to thigh.

Seven pushed themselves to their elbows, towering over Mirney’s seated position,
and glanced down at the man, head cocked in question. A simmering anger had
settled in their heart while hearing Mirney speak, the disregard with which he recalled
the lives of those he'd used.

“And what about me?” Seven asked. “The me in /ere?” Pale skin, stained glass
eyes, brown curls. Seven tapped their temple softly with two fingers.

“Tt was a complicated procedure,” Mirney said. “The brain is so delicate. Intimate.
Never transfers properly, which is why you can’t remember the others.”

Six bodies—faint at the edges, bleeding into nothingness.

“What are you saying?” Seven asked. That wave, that tingling warmth, licked up
their spine and caressed the edges of their brain, pooling in the sulci like fog settling

QO over a swamp.

; “Tt’s always been you,” Mirney clarified. “Host by host, stitch by stitch, I’m doing
4 this for you.”

1 Seven shook their head. Damp curls obscured their vision. Obscured Mirney

| from view, whose gaze was so adamantly focused on Seven.

‘They were Seven, the seventh, made of nine. How many had it taken before

30 NE,

Lx

FICTION

them? How many would come after?

“Tt hurts,” was all Seven could say, and it was the truth.

“I know, I’m sorry. But each time I’m closer to getting it right. And then you'll be
whole again.”

Body to body, struggling to find a home.

“Who was I?” Seven asked.

Mirney shook his head no. It was a question he wouldn't answer.

Hands to eyes, pressed hard into sockets; the perfect imitation of grief drew Mir-
ney closer. His arms fell around Seven as they had many times before, though Seven
couldn't remember any time before this, pulling them into a tight embrace. Seven
allowed their hands to fall away from their eyes, around Mirney, carving a path slowly
closer to the pan where he'd laid his scissors to rest.

‘They were the seventh of seven, the last to be created, the finest piece of work Dr.
Mirney would ever make.

Oo
—

LAST THURSDAY WAS CONFLICTUAL

GRACIA LARSEN-SCHMIDT

Last Thursday was conflictual because my family and I went to the movie theater and
it was muggy and mosquitoey outside, which definitely made it easier to force my-
self indoors on a summer night, but still! the sun hadn’t even begun to think about
setting when I held the door open for Micah and Mom and Dad but then ended

up holding the door for fourteen other people because they just kept coming and |
couldn’t stop once I'd started because there was no way to fairly draw the line between
who would be on the receiving end of my door-opening graces and who simply did
not make the cut, and when I finally got into the movie theater, the floor was look-
ing a little like it hadn’t been vacuumed since the force awakened, but most people
do not look at the floor when they walk in because they’ve got their eyes on the prize
a.k.a. the concessions which is exactly where we were headed to get our four drinks
and two large popcorns, the latter of which I had to share with my brother, Micah,
and yes, I wanted the flavor “kettle corn” but Micah wanted “cheddar cheese” (gross),
so since we couldn't come to an agreement on one or the other and the movie was lit-
erally about to start, we met halfway and put “kettle corn” on my side of the popcorn
bucket and “cheddar cheese” on his.

We realized that the movie had not literally been about to start because splayed across
the screen was a commercial for luxury orthotics offered in three colors: red, blue,
and Metal Mixing Bowl gray, and this floating image of an insanely good deal on ev-
eryday orthotics was accompanied by soft, peppy music underscoring the voice of an
unseen but probably elderly woman whose life had never been better because now she
could walk to her granddaughter’s soccer games three blocks away without a smid-
gen of arch pain, but then the screen abruptly changed to an ad for the very average
dentist that we already subscribe to, and all the while I was trying to wait until the
movie actually started to eat any popcorn but I couldn’t help myself, and as I threw
that first handful into my open mouth, I immediately had to come to terms with the
fact that my side of popcorn and Micah’s side of popcorn had jumbled together and
it all tasted like “kettle cheddar corn cheese,” which was annoying but perhaps less
annoying than the person who decided to sit directly behind me because this meant
that I couldn't lean my seat all the way back for maximum relaxation.

a)

POETRY

‘The movie started anticlimactically, and I couldn't stop thinking about how strange

it was to watch a movie in the dark with complete strangers in a strange room and
about how we were all isolated bodies communing together over overpriced buttery
popcorn without ever conversing or exchanging eye contact and about how I could
lose myself in this kind of space, in this plot, and become estranged from my reality
for a moment or two or three or four or five or six or seven and all the numbers that I
had ever known pounded at the gates where they were kept and I, their queen, floated
above their brightly colored bodies and spoke in caramelized riddles which dissipated
on the tongues of the clouds smiling up at me, and | (iii
long enough to know the difference between J and EBB. Have you
caressed the moon’s dimpled cheek as she hums the impossible into existence? Neither
have I, but I have donned a pair of stolen silken heels fitted with red luxury orthotics.

NONFICTION

oo-oco-o0

SS)
io

THE GLOW | NEED

ELENA LASKOWSKI

Traversing a familiar path, I pedaled my bike without much thought on the ride
home from campus. The temperature was pleasant; even as the days shortened, Octo-
ber trailed itself lazily alongside the warm autumn light. When I looked up from the
curved gravel road ahead, the curve of a crescent moon was looking back. I slowed to
a stop to stare, and before I knew it, I was seeing the pearlescent sliver through the
rectangle of my phone screen as I aimed the camera upwards.

This was not the first time I had stopped mid-pedal on the ride home. Waver-
ing tree branches, large cloud shapes, and the most cliché of sunsets have all proved
reason enough for me to slow my bike, press my toes to the ground, and take a closer
look. But I think my most abrupt stops are driven by the desire to capture the moon
in a sky still caught in the blues of daytime. More elusive than the dark-sky moon, it
casts less of a contrast without the inky black from behind to emphasize its glow. This
moon's appearance is rather light, gentle; settling into its uncommon but comfortable
perch like a speckle on a robin’s egg. Its rarity and beauty make it a prime target for
the memorialization that follows a button-click. My hands and feet conducted the
movement of a wheeled transport, but like many of us when confronted with natural
beauty, I still felt the necessity to halt, look, and document.

The looking I feel is justified, the documenting I worry about. Digital archive:

a replication, not the origin, of a lived experience. I have sometimes pedaled with
phone in one hand, maneuvering a handle with the other as I ride further in hopes
of finding the right angle to capture something in the sky. It makes me remember my
six-year-old self attempting to ride my bicycle without using hands or feet. That par-
ticular endeavor ended in a trip to urgent care and a scar on my chin, so one would
hope that I learned to take bike safety seriously. But still, I risk the fall for a desired
snapshot.

Who do I even think I am? A contributor for National Geographic, crawling on

her belly in the grass, waiting for the buffalo to lift its head? It’s really not that serious.

But there’s a feeling of necessity, a yanking pull from my eyes to my hand to preserve
the sanctity of the moment-to prove it existed. To myself or to an indifferent Insta-
gram audience, I don't know. I would like to say it’s partly for myself. I look back at
my photo album; try to remind myself of moments I have forgotten.

6

= lV
Lx

NONFICTION

I want to slow down.

Some days, I feel my fingers itching constantly. I fear I have completely forgot-
ten how to stand somewhere and just look around instead of reaching for the easy
attention-fix in my pocket. I think we must all have been better at lingering in the
world as children, without the temptation of a phone to pull us out of it. We must
have gone hours without thinking about what a screen had to offer. But maybe I’m
misremembering. Maybe there was always something, be it PBS Kids or Instagram,
that had half a grip on my attention. In my young adult years, I have become increas-
ingly attuned to how easy it is to go through life with rapid movements—one thing
to the next, using technology to see more often than my surroundings. Despite my
self-awareness, I feel there is no true disconnecting from the digital at this point in
my life. | pronounced the daytime moon miraculous in comparison to the nighttime
one, but the truth is that sometimes the sight of the nighttime moon still astounds
me. The other night, I was driving along a road that often reveals something at the
height of its incline—a painted smattering of clouds, or flock of migratory birds, or in
this case: a clear and startling full moon. As I crested that hill, one hand holding the
bottom of the wheel, and it arose in bright and crystal grandeur against the backdrop
of the silver-speckled darkness, I felt something akin to a hard punch in the chest. I
was shocked.

Even though this was really the same nighttime moon I have always seen, always
gawked at, always loved, I was in disbelief at its presence. A voice in my head whis-
pered: it doesnt look real. At first, I felt a familiar gratitude for the sense of wonder-
ment, but it was quickly followed by fear. I almost didn’t believe it was really there,
didn’t trust my own eyes. It made me question: how many moons do we see on a
screen versus the one that’s really in front of us? How many altered photographs or
digital effects in films of the moon and the sun? How many vivid stars, astronomical
events, meteors flashing?

Is it possible for my brain to lose sense of what’s real and what’s digitally con-
structed? This is a thought that keeps me up at night, terrified of blurring the lines of
reality. The constant of the moon, a nightly companion, rendered just another object
for my eyes to take in for a second and forget afterwards. A stranger.

In my photo album, I can choose to return to the picture I took on my bike that
day in October. The still image is hued in husky blues; the visible clouds touched by
a violet shade at their white cusps. The fallen light of dusk shadows the road, street
lamps, and lone car, but the sky above still looms brightly. Alone, high above the low
layer of wispy clouds, hangs the sliver of moon that slowed my pedaling to a stop. If
I zoom in, I can see how the thumbnail starts to curve into the invisible shape of the
rest of the circle. I remember the soft whisper of breeze that rocked the tree branches

pet 37

=-oo-ocoo-oo0

NONFICTION

o--—-ocoo-o0

1S)
(ee)

and bent the roadside weeds at the scene’s frame. I remember the awe. The picture
brings a few senses back to me; replications, but also reminders.

I find myself relieved to have this photo, even though I have many like it. And if I
continue my habits, I will have more. It is not a bad thing, I think, to have the power
to document natural wonders. But I can’t help asking: is my mental image of the
moon the one in my hand, or the one above the craning of my neck? I want my mind
to be able to distinguish these, and I want my soul to recognize with what it holds
kinship. My hope is for my perception of the world, and my existence in it, to be as
real and tangible as the human experience permits. For my own peace of mind while
witnessing this life everyday, I want—dare I say need—my body to know what ground
it stands on, and where it is situated in the universe. How the earth holds, and the
moon gazes.

Conscious of how much time I spend looking at the digital versus physical, I have
started forcing myself to stare outwards. Like an exercise for the eyes; flicking them
from leaf to grass blade instead of pixel to pixel. I try to ingrain the shape of clouds
and maple saplings into my mind to reinforce what the physical world looks like. I
don't think I’m in danger of truly forgetting, but I make the effort as a hopeful and
meditative practice. In a daily pattern of inevitably inundating my vision with digital
representations, it’s all I can do to try and even it out with the physically present.

Whenever I see the moon, I slow my path. Sometimes, I take a photo. Other
times, I still my body, level my breath, and just look.

OWN TOON OOOO TOO WOT ODDO TOO MONO TOoO NOOO NOOO VNOOOIOTI07
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100101071000017071071100071010010117010007171001001000000111071007101001017100100771010

POETRY

on doo 0

SKINNER

OLIVIA HEBBLEWHITE

I want to believe
we speak because the body
hammers the gavel

and defends the soul.

That our voices are us,
the legacy we won't leave
to the chains of neat DNA.

What I mean is,

can I stay here, believing
imagination is imagination,
more than sprawled
chromosomes, more than Skin-
ner’s neurons.

Till the day he died,

he refused to renounce

that we are anything but hides

whipped by rewards and punishments.

If language is solely

a watering hole,

interpersonal influence

sheer movement of molecules,

then why cry on

the brown loveseat,

the psychology textbook
so heavy in my lap?

‘The ways in which I love (the world)
are just an organized presentation
of the space and time

between each synapse.

And if now you can feel the salt
drying on my cheeks,

your helix must unwind like mine,
all this amassed feeling

sheer coincidence of stimulus.

POETRY

=—-oo-o-o co

oN
—

FICTION

PULSE

CECILIA LAUSTEN

‘The water splashing at my feet is tinted red. It spirals down in patterns until it
dilutes to a light pink and finally disappears down the drain. When it stays clear, I
step out onto the cooled floor, leaving wet footprints in front of the low tub. The
bathroom is warm. Humid air invades my senses, and steam lingers, clouding my
reflection in the mirror.

My reflection clears enough to see my face and torso, but something about the
angle seems off. I look taller, stretched thin as if the image isn’t quite my own. A trick
of old glass, I’m sure, but I don’t move closer. My nose burns with the smell of citrus,
the cheap, manufactured scented soap instead of old tobacco and must, a general air
of decay that almost all the motels in Kass carry the second you cross the threshold.
It’s comforting, nonetheless, knowing that the yellow bar washes away any sins I’ve
committed and prepares me for another restless night.

A few muffled sounds make their way through the thin bathroom walls, and the
creaking floor tells me Will is pacing. I throw a towel on my hair and crack the door
open. A rush of steam flows out and meets the cold bedroom air. The room is famil-
iar, but I know I’ve never been here; all the safe houses hidden in the form of hotels
are the same. Identical queen mattresses with worn sheets and cracked mirrors, ash-
trays filled with buds sitting on the shitty end tables stained from various substances
spilled over the years. The carpet under my bare feet is mainly worn through and
almost catches as I step, so I pick my feet up a little more.

He’s at the edge of the room, by the half-curtained window, whispering so I can't
quite make out all the words. His tone changes with each step, rising and falling but
growing harsher as the seconds tick by. I know he’s trying his hardest to stay hushed;
the walls are thin, and voices carry, and our situation and the atmosphere call for
it—you shouldnt’ tell your secrets to whatever lurks beyond the dim hallways and the
rooms on either side of us. Not that there seem to be any other guests around, but
the members of the Void have always been excellent at keeping themselves hidden.

He finally faces me head-on but stares right through me like I’m not even there.
He’s a million miles away from this bedroom.

The lenses are hard to spot for an untrained eye because they seamlessly blend
into the wearer's natural vision. They’re micro-thin, almost invisible on the cornea’s

OUT OF THIS WORLD
Nora Hitchcock

digital art na

FICTION

oo o-oo

aN
oN

surface, but they always make Will’s blue eyes a single shade darker, and even in the
dim light, I still notice it. He’s dug deep into the Nexis, and I know he’s tracking the
Void’s movements, mapping them throughout the city.

I sink onto the bed, scrunching my hair before I throw the towel away. Even
though he’s tethered in, he must sense me in the real world because he blinks rapidly
and returns to me.

“Sorry,” he breathes out, “I thought I'd finish before you.”

I brush him off with a shrug.

“Everything okay?”

Will purses his lips, a tell that he wants to lie to me, but he must think better
because he shakes his head.

“Two more of ours were just found dead in East Kass.”

‘That sucks the air from the room and proves the theory we've been working on
for days: they know about the stolen plans, the information that exposes every little
dirty secret and corruption in the city. The Void knows what we're capable of, and
they need to wipe out any trace of resistance, so we're being hunted.

“Cal says we're safe here, but I’m not sure I believe anywhere in this goddamn city
is safe.” Will peeks out the window. “The Void has eyes everywhere.”

I get up from the bed, gripping his arms and forcing him to look at me. “So do
we.

His brows knit together, and his lips purse to a thin line. We both know we have
allies out there, but it also goes unspoken that the numbers are dropping with the
passing minutes.

“T need to get the files up.” I nod toward the bathroom. “You should shower.”

He leaves just as I tether myself in, blinking rapidly until the Nexis flares to life
in my vision. It’s a beautiful creation by the resistance—a pulsing network of light
and code, the last safe haven carved out of the Void’s digital grip where we can safely
communicate, strategize, and gather intel without being traced. The Void—an empire
hidden in the shadows, a government in all but name—tightens its hold on every
system it touches, erasing dissent before it can take root. But this file, these stolen
fragments of truth paid for in blood, could change that. Could unravel their fragile
system from the inside and watch it crumble.

The file is still locked when I send it through. Its encryption is intact, but not for
long. The receiver will break my code within minutes. And if we're lucky—if what we
stole is worth the Void hunting us down—we'll strike before they have their chance.

FRA AK RAK AK ARK ARK AK OK A OK KOK

FICTION

“We should sleep.” I offer a small smile to Will when he enters the room, black
pants hanging low on his hips. “Or at least try to.”

He nods, going toward the door. He jiggles the nob, relatches the lock, and at-
taches the flimsy chain to the other side. Satisfied, he joins me under the thin covers
of the lumpy bed. The pillows we lie on are flat, and the general unease makes it hard
to close my eyes. I sense Wills’s anxiety better than my own. His face is taut, and his
jaw is clenched so hard I think it could break. Even though he turned off the light,
the glow from the city still illuminates half his face, and I can see his eyes are trained
on the door.

I push myself closer in his hold, resting my head on his chest, hearing the strong
yet fast beat of his heart. I know he won't sleep. He won't allow himself to, so I try
to create a bubble for us where the outside world ceases to exist, and we're safe some-
where far from here. I gently reach for his hand, pulling it toward my wrist, where his
fingers hover for a moment. He knows what I’m doing, and a small smile etches on
his face. His fingers press gently into my skin, just below the base of my thumb, and
my heartbeat pulses under his touch, a reminder that I’m here, that ’m safe—and,
above all, I’m alive.

His hold stays until my eyelids grow heavy, and his soft breath all but lulls me to
sleep. I try to fight it, to stay awake so he doesn’t have to be anxious alone, but one of
us should get some sleep, and it will never be him.

FRA AK IRA AK ARK AE AK KK AK OK KK

I haven't been asleep long when the com rings once, then twice. We're in danger.

I practically throw myself out of Will’s hold as he scrambles for the device, holding it
to his ear to answer the call. It’s loud and choppy on the other end, but the only thing
that clearly makes its way through Cal’s panicked voice and the terrible connection is,
“Get somewhere safe.”

It’s a simple command for us, but also a death sentence. Nowhere in this city is
safe.

I was in the dream world a minute ago, but now I’m frantically pulling on clothes
while Will holds a high-tech weapon toward the door. He’s standing firm, eerily calm,
as I finish pulling my hair back.

“You're going to the Chrono club, and you're taking the bike.”

“No.” My voice is firm. “We're going together, or I’m not going at all.”

He blows hard from his nose and shakes his head, but his eyes don’t leave the
door. He starts toward it, knowing I'll follow, and I do. He unlatches each lock, and
with a quick look in both directions, he leads us out. The hallway on the fourth floor

—o-— Co oo

aN
Al

FICTION

oN
Oo

stretches too long as if the motel is pulling itself apart in slow motion, but I’m sure
it’s my imagination playing tricks on me in the dim light. Four doors line each side of
the corridor, a singular window at the end with a broken exit sign flickering an omi-
nous red. We dance in the shadows until we reach the alley where the bike is parked.

The air is thick, and I can almost taste the smog that settles over the city in the
dark. The lights are dimmer here. His hands grip my shoulders when we reach the
bike. His stare, which is usually confident, is clouded in panic.

“Tm not going without you.” I reaffirm.

“Yes, you are. You have to. Get to the bar. They'll know who you are and help you
get out.”

I grip onto his jacket as if I’m going to hold him forever, and I’m memorizing
every inch of his face, knowing that if I leave him now, there’s a chance I never see it
again.

Tears well behind my eyes before I know what’s happening, and I’m shaking my
head with such fervor I think it might fall from my shoulders. A distant crash makes
him lean over and start the bike. Danger is coming, or maybe it’s already here. He'll
send me away, and then he'll go to meet it head-on.

“Listen to me, Nyla,” He cups my face in his hands, his thumb brushing away an
escaped tear. “They'll come after me first, so you have to go. Okay?”

His voice cracks, and I’m trembling under his touch. I know he’s right, that he’s
trying to get me to understand that we are part of something bigger than ourselves,
but it doesn’t mean that, at this moment, I care about anything other than staying
with him.

He tilts his forehead to touch mine, and the world freezes. ‘The noises die to a
hum, and his breath is the only thing I hear. I reach down, grabbing his wrist, and
gently place my fingers below his thumb, feeling his strong pulse around me. My
breath catches in my throat, not trusting myself to speak, but I meet his lips for a kiss
that neither of us hopes is our last.

His lips are warm and familiar, and his hands slide to my waist, pulling me closer.
Our heartbeats synchronize, expanding in unison, and I pour everything I have into
him: all my fears and regrets and a promise that if I don’t see him again in this life,
we'll meet again in the next.

He parts from me first and smiles a small, broken smile.

“Go.” He whispers.

Tears flow as I pull a helmet over my head and swing my leg over the bike, kick-
ing it forward and racing out of the alleyway. When I glance at the side mirror, he’s
already gone.

6

= lV
Lx

FICTION

DRA AK ARK AK OK AK A AK AK RK A OK

‘The wind whips around me as I speed down the seemingly endless stretch of
highway toward Chrono. It’s wide, almost empty, and the few cars that line the road
ahead are clear of my path. The high-tech bike pulses with an electric blue glow,
illuminating the road beneath me as I race forward. I focus on the skyline looming
ahead, but check the mirrors every few seconds to make sure I’m still alone. There is
no sign of the Void, but that doesn’t mean they don’t know exactly where I’m going.
The bike accelerates smoothly as I weave through the lanes.

I ping Will again and again, but each call goes unanswered.

I almost turn around, but three sets of lights flash behind me. They're far enough
behind but drawing tighter with each second, and the red hue they emit from their
bikes tells me everything I need to know. I press down the accelerator as far as it will
go and lurch forward.

My body is moving on autopilot when I make it to the club, hiding the bike in
another alley and hastily wiping the tears from my face. I follow the flashing lights
of the club into another dimension—one seemingly untouched by the weight of the
world pressing down on me. The bass reverberates through my chest, and the air is
thick with the scent of sweat, liquor, and something sweet that makes my stomach
turn. It’s bustling with people. Most are dancing drunkenly in the middle, some are
at the bar, and others are in the VIP section overlooking it all.

I keep my head down even though I have friends in Chrono. I know the Void has
them, too.

Weaving through the sea of bodies, I move toward the bar, dodging drunken
dancers who sway without care, their laughter spilling over the pounding music. The
club is almost pitch black, but its darkness is cut through by violet, red, and electric
blue beams, flashing in rhythmic bursts from fixtures embedded high in the walls and
ceiling.

‘The bass-heavy music thrums through the floor, a deep, pulsing beat that rat-
tles in my chest and seeps into my bones. It’s something electronic, fast, and almost
hypnotic. I finally slip through the cascade of people and find a barstool that feels too
slick, too stiff, but I sink into it anyway. Facing me, mirrors stretch across the back

wall, reflecting the club’s entrance in a distorted, shifting blur of neon and movement.

For a moment, my gaze shoots forward. It lingers on the shelves behind the
bartender, stacked with sleek, glowing bottles of liquid in every shade of electric col-
or—blue, red, green, violet—each swirling faintly as if they're reacting to the music’s
relentless bass.

I shake away the haze, the distraction fleeting. Settling back into my seat, eyes

pbk

aN
Ny

FICTION

oocoo--a0

aN
lee}

locked on the exit, I wait. I want to believe I lost them, but deep down, I know that’s
not true. I com Will again and again. Each time, it rings and dies.

‘The bartender makes her way over to me, and as soon as she registers my familiar
face, a solemn look crosses her features.

“Are you alone?”

I nod, tears threatening to spark again. Her mouth opens, then closes as three
figures enter the club. They think they're slick, keeping toward the edges of the room.
Even though they act like faceless goons, they're highly trained, and their only mis-
sion is to track me down before I cause their bosses any more trouble.

The one closest to me clocks where | sit at the bar and motions to the others. ’m
alone and the most tired and heartbroken I have ever been in my life. I want to yield,
accept my fate, and hope that someone out there finishes what Will and I helped
start.

‘They close in, and a hard hand comes down on my shoulder, fingers digging into
muscle, but I don’t fight it.

Maybe I should reach for my weapon, all beautiful edges and sleek lines, throw
a punch or make a break for it, but somehow, I can’t bring myself to move. I exhale,
slow and shaky, feeling the weight of everything settle in my bones. This city was
never going to let me go.

‘The bartender moves first. A flash of motion. The sharp clink of metal against
glass. I pull my gun before it’s too late. Three shots ring out—the music cuts. Bodies
scatter, some screaming, others ducking for cover. The grip on my shoulder falters,
and I barely process whether the blood that sprays is mine or theirs.

Someone shouts my name. Another shot. Closer this time.

Something slams into me hard, the world tilts, the taste of metal sharp on my
tongue.

‘The impact steals my breath, but I can’t tell if I’m falling or still fighting. My
steady pulse beats against my ribcage, and then, another sound—boots pounding,
voices calling over the chaos, arms catch me before I hit the ground.

Will?

REDEFINING THE MIRROR
Sheena Vang
acrylic on canvas

NONFICTION

SLIP INTO THE PLASMA POOL

NICODEMUS ZINOS

I feel a numbness this time. Maybe I felt one last time too, but now that deep
cold seems to be all I can feel. I was stalking her Spotify the other day. I wanted to see
what music she had last listened to. I saw a playlist called “potential walk out songs”
and I had to wonder. It had two songs in it. One was “Fancy” by Drake and the other
was “Old Time Rock and Roll” by Bob Seger. Not the songs I would listen to before
shooting myself in the head, but she always did have terrible taste in music. Maybe
Pm overthinking. The playlist could be about anything really.

My friend left traces everywhere. On Snapchat I see video after video of different
people that knew her, posting old memories. Instagram is full of pictures remem-
bering her. The other night, me and a bunch of friends watched A Phantom of the
Opera (2014). It had been our friend’s favorite guilty pleasure movie and afterwards,
I looked to see if she had logged it on Letterboxd and was disappointed that the only
movie she ever logged was Airplane.

The digital footprint of a dead loved one has always made me laugh. My little
brother, who died three years ago, was in a family Discord server, and his account
lay dormant for years. One day, my dad found out how to access it and almost gave
my sister a heart attack when she got an alert that her dead brother was typing in
the group chat. I still look at his Steam account as it counts up the days since he
was last online. I hope they never delete his account for being inactive; it’s a cozy
feeling, seeing the games that he last played, looking at his reviews and screenshots.
It’s nice to not have to hold on to all the memories myself. Faces change, and voices
disappear. Even now, I can’t remember the color of my friend’s eyes, or the way my
brother sounded. 100 years ago and the ghosts of the dead stole those things away for
good. But now I can conjure them up again, I can go on the photo album my family
has shared online and look and see. I can stare into a screen and see my dead friend,
reanimated for 12 seconds, laughing with me at her wedding. But as I rewatch these
videos and look over a Spotify playlist, I cannot forget how incomplete it all is. 12
seconds begins to feel like an eternity as you watch it over and over again. 12 seconds
begins to feel like all you leave behind.

Without these recordings, however, I would have only my memory to rely on
and memory is a fickle thing. Many times in history, witnesses have pointed fingers

nN
—

NONFICTION

oo oS ]—o0 4

Nn
N

at defendants, indicting them for terrible crimes, only for a DNA test to later prove
innocence. Almost immediately after viewing something, we begin to forget certain
aspects of it as our mind transfers short-term memory into long-term. Before writing,
folk tales were passed down orally and would change drastically from the original
telling. Centuries of playing telephone created all sorts of supernatural legends and
myths. Then writing was invented and created more stability for the human collec-
tive. We could read the thoughts of our predecessors and instill our own ideas into

a (semi)permanent form. And yet there was still some disconnect there. The words
must be visualized by the reader, they are subject to the audience’s view. But now
there’s something else entirely. We can record audio-visuals. We can create 3D models
of the universe. We have created artificial intelligence. We can record our friends and
tuck it away for a rainy day to feel their warmth again. And yet the deeper we go into
the plasma pool, the more we depend on it.

I recently heard the phrase “plasma pool” in a Cronenberg movie, Zhe Fly. In the
film, Seth Brundle, an eccentric scientist, creates a teleportation device and dares to
test it on himself. It goes terribly wrong, and slowly his humanity falls away from
him. The plasma pool is the whirling vortex of information he entered. It’s like the
internet in some ways, but really it’s all digital information, all stored data, to be
manipulated at a whim. Seth stepped into the pool, he took his soul and translated it
into so many 1’s and 0’s. He traveled the stream and risked a confluence, and when
he left that stream, a 1 appeared where a 0 had been before.

‘That movie came out in the 80s and yet its relevance only increases as time goes
on. We are all linked to the plasma pool now. We all have openings to it sitting in our
pockets. And when we stare into this pool, it is not us that look back, but a recon-
struction. There is a Nico within the plasma pool, there lies a piece of my brother,

a fragment of my friend. It is a living, consuming thing, an amorphous thing, ter-
rifying and yet beautiful. Maybe the great cold I feel is me slipping into the pool. I
feel it’s wonderfully uncaring code wash over me; there is no moralization here, no
hidden meaning, no chasing an imaginary dragon; there is the sole purpose of iden-
tification. To be known, to let the algorithm create a facsimile. It doesn’t attempt to
change me, it only looks to record that change.

In the end, you must offer your soul to the pool. After your grave crumbles to
dust, and the bridge we wrote our names under falls into disrepair; after the last
person ever speaks your name aloud; only after all these things will the plasma pool
release your binary. Only after green grows over everything will it revert the 1 back to
0, and that is enough for me.

IF! GO

EVAN SCHWARTZ

If I go to Dublin and ask you: why

Were you crying that night? Will you tell me

Of the dead, the drifting of dying screens. Though
Maybe my mom will text you: I am a fish.

Pll say, there is water at the bottom

Of the ocean. With all that is dying.

You might call me and say you dug holes again.
Pll say I can fill them with old pictures

We made on blue printer paper and that

I might stay lost in Berlin for a while.

Well, message me if you change your mind, please.
Look. Ask. Where is that beautiful house with
That beautiful wife? It all came floating,

Messages of airborne toxic events

Drift in as I dream of us in Le Lit.

And feeling Klimt’s Kiss, I’m trying to rise

Through the ceiling, but held down by your hands.

So go. Let me go.
You psychopomp.
Pll be here.

POETRY

—o-—-o--—o 0

Nn
1S)

POETRY

AUGMENTED STATE

ELENA LASKOWSKI

Through the links of the fence
on the side of the bridge

is the red moon

over the railway tracks—
big enough to take up

a whole 4x4 wire slot.

A face takes shape _ AMY
in my mind’s hazy eye;
on the rusty surface, smudges of

craters or dust or grey matter
form features that could be
tormented or jolly.

One face splits into two;
masculine/feminine crescent
slot together, their noses

well-met like puzzle pieces—
hers Roman, his sloped.

Amorphous shapes emerge

and distortions leak from the

loosening of the gaze. PREACHERS
The night is a drug, too. Noah Uphus

photograph

Nn
oN
ig
0
ae
4

POETRY

ond +-+-o00

nN
Oo

SUN DOUBLE, CUL DE SAC

GAVIA BOYDEN

my eyes burn a circle
and, further back,
the past settles like dust,

milk ring visions and a plastic spoon,
a backyard where chairs sling
low-backed and humming,

a sandbox cooling damp,

swing-set chains brittled up blue,
tricycle shifting its weight,

neighbor’s son bare-chested for groceries,
a retriever hurling against the gate,

kitchen window leaking radio waves
into the grass-smell of day,

kissing green into a thigh,

saying, keep this—

HOW TO MAKE SLEEP

JOSIE TREGEMBO

Look for purple

out in the lilac forest, the sultry garden, or the shimmering river bank.
Conjure a void of lavender with the essence of the flora you found.
Breathe in, let it consume you as you consume it.

Seek Earth at its primest

where the largest tree stands firm, textured in a soap of maple.
Reflect its skin onto yours, a soothing coat to layer your mind,
body, and soul.

Then, call for her sister

just below the sunrise, she stands boldly in the wilderness of chirping critters.

Absorb the cedar through your nose, and capture its taste in your heart.
Let it shrill your veins into ease.

Mourn for rain

during the darkest hour, dance and cry simultaneously.

Wait to be cleansed from the terrors that choked your desires
when the sun denied you glory.

Finally, lie in warm colors,

air is your cover, grass is your bed, and leaves are your pillow.
When silence knocks on the door, let it come in,

for it’s a rare ethos to find.

POETRY

Nn
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yee
vue

Mi

«

*
.
wy tet

-o.

GRANDMA ANNA-MAY

AVERY COMES

When they finally pull up to the house and see the property stretching for miles,
the car will be covered in dust and dirt from the long ride in. It is the only house
visible on the horizon, but they know there’s more hiding in the treeline. The gravel
driveway leading in is lined with a simple cornfield on the left and a large barn on the
right. The cornfield is Grandpa Bob’s personal field, not like the acres of soybeans he
farms for profit. All the kids will be taking a bag of fresh sweetcorn home at the end
of the weekend. The barn to the right has a huge combine tractor in it. | remember
Bob taking that out on the fields when we were just starting our family, but he’s far
too old for it now. Now he just waits quietly for these reunions. The minivan eventu-
ally creaks to a stop at the pavement right in front of the garage. If the sun were still
in the sky, the whole family could see the towering windmills spanning the country-
side. But alas, darkness has covered the practically empty scenery, and with it comes
a blanket of stars. Stars so bright and endless that, in the absence of light, the dusty
Milky Way can’t help but show off her beauty.

Car doors slide open, and each person takes their time exiting, stretching out sore
limbs. The ride felt faster when they were kids, but now it stretches long and pain-
ful. They grab their duffel bags and pillows, making their way inside the garage with
their eyes nearly shut from exhaustion. One of them, my youngest grandchild, takes
a moment to look up at that vast, brightly freckled sky. For a breath, we appreciate
the view together, but when I return my phantom gaze to her, she is crying. I drift
towards her, but she’s already wiping her eyes and following her siblings inside.

The house is one level with a basement, but long enough to comfortably fit a fam-
ily. Light amber wood cabinets hold my coffee mugs, and the dining table is packed
with cousins. When we first married, Bob and I started out in a trailer home on this
very same property. We lived there for years, raising our babies. We finally saved
enough to build this farmhouse, with enough room to stretch out, not even 20 feet
from where we were. The trailer was torn down, and the ground beneath turned into
my garden. That garden reminded us of what we used to have and how we've grown
and changed. I used to walk through the garden and think to myself, “This was where
the sink was...and this corner was our bedroom...my nightstand, my books, were
right here.” It’s surreal.

59

FICTION

My home is a lonesome one now, but it used to be filled with love—our eight
children roughhousing, Bob tending to the fields, and me keeping everything in
order. To see everyone back together is so special. It brings me warmth—warmth that
eases the persistent chill that’s been plaguing me. I spent hours on this home-cooked
meal, and I believe it’s time for supper, but are those pizza boxes on the table? Oh,
that’s okay, I probably didn’t cook enough anyway. I try to get everyone’s attention to
say grace, but they pay me no mind. ‘That’s alright, I suppose they have lots of catch-
ing up to do. I catch a glimpse of movement and see my tearful grandchild near the
wall. Oh dear.

My movement towards her feels sluggish, but I have to console her. That’s my job,
and I will not allow crying in this home without a hug. I wrap my arms around her
and—

I slip right past her. She shivers and cries some more.

WONDER LULLABY

CASS BRYANT

Draw a frog from memory

And ponder if the front legs count as arms
Or if amphibians really have toes
Consider neither in your sketch

Spell the sound of wind through trees as you imitate it
Spread your arms like it’s wrapping itself around you
Fill your lungs with requisite wonder and

Lips puckered, teeth together, shhbhh

If this doesn’t work, make the wind water

Dont you know they really sound the same?

Listen. It was the right sound all along

Feel it wash down your shoulders and trickle through your fingers

Believe in wishes when you blow out candles

Feel the weight of not superstition but optimism
Settle on your shoulders like a warm father’s hand
Until, finally, you trust that it could turn out okay

POETRY

Oo
mH

af _: ; FICTION
pe \ \ GU \ | ——@
A s ee AY AS PET-SITTING
" That if you “W@emmN ss ee
have had a “aa
€fiend £0 >) years,

MACK BRUSCA

The world is devoid of sound as I make my way through the research building.
Doors slide open silently. Lights flicker on as I trigger their sensors without their usu-

oy 0 U Af e tf ( gn d ES e } h\ | \ al click, and even the floor swallows all sound my footsteps would make. Normally

LOK RVR

there would be at least some quiet chatter in this building, but it’s completely lifeless
me now. Holiday weekend. People who could afford to not go to work did so, and those
: ' }). an who couldnt convince their dear friends to cover their shifts and forfeit their own

( Thought iy » an desperately-needed break. I am one of those sorry bastards. Watching Moltz’s little
That Mal Oh | creature repays a debt to him that I have long left unpaid, but knowing that I’m “do-
. — ing the right thing” doesn’t make me any less pissed off about having to go to work
on a holiday. While I wallow in self-pity, I shuffle into the sanitizing chamber leading
to the lab and get the shit scared out of me by the hiss of the air nozzles. My already

4

sour mood was now even worse. The door to the lab finally opens, and I emerge in a
cloud of sanitizer-fog to see the silhouette of my fellow pet-sitter for the week: Sara
Ridley, xenozoologist. An extremely nice woman. I’m sad to see her here—she works
harder and more earnestly than most people I know in our xenozoo department.

If anyone deserves a long break, it’s her. I give her a wave and small smile, and she
smiles back nervously. As I turn to put my stuff down in the breakroom, she waves
her hand in my face to get my attention again and hands me a clipboard.

INSTRUCTIONS FOR SB-126’s CARE:

i q rea AN Wy) \\ | ;
CC (eve nt Sh a a | || ¢ Keep light very low. It is ok if it is too dark to see the subject.
| Aeiacte | 6 Sv \ ¢ Keep at 2°F Temperature is controlled by the red knob.
; ya". ¢ Do not talk in the lab. Wear nothing in the lab that can obscure your mouth.

- Make sure you are familiar with the voices of your lab partners.

o SB-126 is able to perfectly mimic what it hears and has a history of
manipulating people by doing so. DO NOT ACKNOWLEDGE IT
WHETHER IT SPEAKS IN SOMEONE ELSE’S VOICE OR ITS
OWN. DO NOT ANSWER ANY QUESTIONS IT ASKS. DO
NOT BELIEVE ANYTHING IT TELLS YOU.

COWARDICE
Banner Beard

collage a a.

LO

ON
Go

FICTION

oncnooo}$o

io
oN

¢ SB-126 is capable of producing sounds of extremely high and deadly decibel

levels. If you suddenly have trouble breathing or feel pressure in your chest,

evacuate immediately and contact BIO.

o UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES SHOULD YOU RETURN TO
THE LAB UNTIL BIO DEEMS IT SAFE. PROLONGED EXPO-
SURE TO EXTREMELY HIGH DECIBELS CAN RESULT IN PUL-
MONARY CONTUSIONS, BURST LUNGS AND EXPLODING
HEADS.

Despite what I’m sure you've heard about SB-126, it’s entirely harmless and very
low maintenance. You'll probably get bored watching it— I know I do sometimes.
Thanks again, and see you in January!

- MOLTZ

I let out a huge sigh of relief. ’m basically getting paid to do nothing all week—
exactly what I wanted on a holiday shift. I give Sara a thank you gesture, and she
signs youre welcome to me.

You know ASL? I sign, surprised

Sara’s tired eyes light up. Yes! She signs, Im a C-O-D-A. My parents are Deaf: ASL
is my first language.

I nod at Sara, impressed. Wow, thats cool! I learned ASL at university.

Sara gives a relieved sigh. / ! Today all week very easy! ?

She signs blazingly fast, and with signs I don't recognize. My cheeks grow hot.

Sorry, I've forgotten a lot of ASL!\ sign with a wince, I didnt understand. Can you
sign again, slower?

She giggles to herself, filling the cold and quiet room with comforting noise. Sara
signs to me again, slowly and deliberately. Sorry! I am excited to sign. This week will be
very easy! We dont need to speak. How do you feel ? ?

I pause for a moment, trying to decipher the last few signs she used. I think one
of them was “math”? Or maybe it was “science”, given the context? I remember doing
very poorly during the school subjects unit in my ASL classes. Seeing me struggle,
Sara smiles and signs again, even slower.

L-A-B, you like? How do you feel?

I nod in understanding. O-K. Bored. Tired. I sign, laughing with embarrassment.
L-A-B, I hate. I want to go home. How do you feel?

She deflates at this question, her shoulders drooping and eyes darkening. Same.
Tired, bored, : animal .M-O-L-T-Z

6

= y
Lx

FICTION

I nod again, this time completely clueless. Sara’s eyes narrow ever so slightly—she
definitely knows I didn’t understand any of that. Gesturing to the backpack hanging
on my shoulder, I wave goodbye and make my way towards the break room to escape
this increasingly awkward conversation. Sara waves back and walks away stiffly.

As I place my bag down on an angular and scratchy armchair, I hear a deep sigh
come from the other room. Clearly she’s anxious. A distraction would do her some
good—lI grab my notepad from my backpack and sort through my most colorful
markers. I see her doodle in her own notepad all the time. Maybe I could get her to
draw with me?

“It looks so sad and lonely in there,” a soft feminine voice calls from the next
room.

My heart stops.

“Tt’s all by itself... In a small, dark box. It’s inhumane.”

What the hell is she doing?!\ sprint from the break room into the enclosure room,
throwing my hands up in bewilderment. When I burst into the room, my mortified
face is matched by Sara’s, who points in accusation at the enclosure window. No larg-
er than an oven door, the window sits at eye level and reveals nothing but darkness.
All vitals look normal. All doors are locked. The darkness is entirely still, and the
room is silent save for me and Sara's gasps and shaky breaths.

“Tt’s all by itself...” the voice repeats in the exact same cadence, exact same tone.
It’s unmistakably Sara’s voice, but it’s coming from the enclosure. Sara slowly creeps
towards the doorway, her hands shaking. I meet her in the middle and stand close by.
Neither of our eyes leave the small black window.

“T-This thing is brilliant!” A man’s voice stammers from within the enclosure.
“Did you get all of that? We had a full conversation!”

“Mimicking. It is mimicking,” A stern voice booms. A large metallic thud comes
from the enclosure, and me and Sara jump back in shock. For just a moment, a flash
of movement appears in the window.

“Today, I will catch it in its lies, and prove you wrong.” The voice is Moltz’s.

A second of silence follows. I glance over at Sara’s face, and see her fear melt into
an emotion | can’t quite place. Suddenly, I hear the low rumble of many voices, a
crowd murmuring behind the glass window.

“Tt is merely a mimic. It has been feigning intelligence this entire time,” Moltz
scolds. “There is no time to celebrate my discovery, however. You all must understand
the terrible implications of this knowledge, and what you have done.”

“For one year and seven months, you all taught SB-126 to speak and understand
human language. You all spoke in front of it constantly. Up until this very moment

—-ooocqa-o

lo
Nn

FICTION

o-oac0c0no-oa

aD
a

every one of you believed it was intelligent, and it took advantage of your trust and
your ignorance to become even more convincing. This thing was able to manipulate
the supposed brightest minds in the country—imagine what it could do if it escaped?
Anyone not in this lab right now would fully believe it was sentient. If it were to ever
escape, it could teach others of its species to mimic us and weaponize our language
against us!”

‘The voices become hushed, and SB-126 lashes out again at the window.

“You talk like it’s doing this to take over the world or something!” Sara’s voice
retorts. “It’s an animal. It’s not capable of plotting to kill us all. It isn’t doing this out
of malice!”

“Malicious or not, SB-126 is too dangerous to be freed. Hell, too dangerous to be
left alive, but conservation laws mean euthanizing this thing—”

SB-126 suddenly falls silent. Me and Sara are completely motionless, glued to the
spot in terror. Gradually, the sounds of hissing and coughing from within the enclo-
sure grow louder and louder.

“Agh—fuck! What is that?!” A woman shouts. She gasps between violent coughs.
A man’s voice joins in, struggling to get any words out. “Gas leak? I c-can’t smell
anything—” Soon, the whole room is smothered with the sound of groans, vomiting,
and choked screams. SB-126 slams a hand into the window and holds it there. It digs
its soft, slimy, webbed digits into the glass, searching for any hold.

“Out!” Moltz gurgles, “EVERYONE- GET OUT!”

All hell breaks loose. The scientists screech and stampede away like wild animals,
creating a violent cacophony. An alarm blares, and all noise becomes unintelligible—
my heart stings with fear almost instinctively before I realize it's coming from SB-
126. I grab hold of Sara’s arm and give it a squeeze, trying to ground myself in reality.
She doesn’t react.

As the uproar begins to die down, a single man’s voice can be made out. “Guys...
Moltz..!” the man gasps. A loud thud. He lets out a scream with all of the strength
he has left. Rubber soles stomp and slide against tile. Wet coughs, spitting, gurgling,
drowning. Something bursts. I feel lightheaded. Bile starts to build in my throat.

‘The drone of the alarm ends, replaced by my ringing ears. I try to push the imag-
es of a man crumpling and splitting open out of my mind. I try to stop myself from
picturing blood pooling on the floor only a foot from where I’m standing. I try to
convince myself that the tightness in my chest is just from panic, not from a scream
my ears cant pick up. The sound of footfalls comes from the enclosure— two pairs,
walking in an even rhythm. Each step sends a hollow echo through the lab.

“Sara.” Moltz’s voice rings out, halting the noise. “If 1 could, I would kill this

FICTION

thing with my bare hands. Does that answer your question?”

SB-126’s hand disappears in the darkness. “Doctor Moltz, it can hear you. If
youre going to say awful things about it, the least you could do is do it in another
room!” Sara’s voice says.

Moltz’s voice grows louder, closer. “I don’t give a damn, Sara! I'll say whatever the
hell I want in front of it.”

“You're going to rile it up again! Do you want MORE people to die?!”

Moltz laughs his deep rumbly laugh—the same laugh I hear at the water cooler
or on video calls, now laced with venom. “As if you fucking care if people live or die.
You want to release this thing back into the wild, on its developing third-world plan-
et, he spits, “This thing is a living sonic weapon with a hatred for humanity. Releas-
ing it can only go one way.”

“And whose fault is that, huh?! It's OURS!” Sara screams, “It’s our responsibility
to make this situation better, or at least try, god dammit! We can start by giving it a
better enclosure that resembles its natural habitat, and raising the temperature so that
it’s not in a constant state of torpor and go from there. A simple, actionable plan,
Moltz!”

My eyes wander to SB-126’s vitals again at the mention of temperature. 30°F—
more than ten times warmer than it should be. I step towards the enclosure to lower
the temperature, but Sara grabs my shoulder and holds me firmly in place. When I
turn my head to face her, she looks at me with pleading eyes. Beneath the desperation
in her gaze is powerful resolve.

“So it gets a nice enclosure and becomes more active. Then what?” Moltz asks,
“We say sorry and ask nicely to not kill us all? We learn to deal with having to evacu-
ate the lab every day because it won't stop screaming? It’s not happening. ‘This thing is
a lost cause.”

“We captured a highly intelligent creature, took it far away from its home and
into horrible living conditions, and pushed it to become violent,” Sara snarls, “And
now that it’s retaliated against us, we plan to just keep it imprisoned here in a coma-
tose state until it withers away and dies! What we've done to this poor animal—and
what we continue to do—is sickening. How can you live with yourself?! How can you
just sit back and do nothing?!”

Sara lets her arm drop from my shoulder. Her gaze falls to the floor.

Moltz pauses, taking a sharp breath in. “I lost all sympathy for that thing the day
it killed Jonas. ‘That you can still bring yourself to defend this monster after it mur-
dered one of our own is disturbing, Sara. Get out of my sight before I report you to
HR for disrespecting the dead.”

=o. Oe) o-—-e)

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FICTION

on oo 0}

io
(ee)

“So it’s doomed to die here? It can never be free?” Sara’s voice says in a harrowing
tone.

SB-126’s tirade ends, and silence blankets the room once more. It lets that final
statement hang in the air before repeating, “It can never be free?”. It repeats it again
and again, pausing between each sentence. Waiting for a response.

Sara chokes down a sob and strides out of the room with her face turned away
from me. My first instinct is to run after her, but I find myself unable to draw my
gaze away from the tiny, black window. I feel a prick in my eyes and the formation of
tears.

“T’m sorry, buddy,” SB-126 cries to itself in Sara’s voice. “I don’t think there’s
anything I can do. We all failed you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

POETRY

ONE SENTENCE

AVA JAX

Upon the arrival of the Sunday Pepin Weekly,

which was, as always,

enjoyed with twice-heated dark roast,

headlines confirmed the

inevitable abandoning of their home.

Darlene, then, first thought of her brothers, Anya’s silk
hummingbird, half-bottled Bombay,

Cheryl’s perfume, the dog.

—-o-oogo-o

on
\o

POETRY

oS oO ooo

~
So

HYDRANGEA LANE

RACHEL SMALL

Store Front

Hydrangea Lane

Perennials
Beds 1, 2, 3
Annuals
Beds 4, 5
Bed 6

The owners didn't know

It was wildfires when the smoke crept in
But the next morning they were researched:
The city—worst air in the world—worse
Than a pack a day. \t was exciting, like a drama,
So I worked and we breathed sublimated bark
‘Thick like wax, watered the hydrangeas,
Coughed, and set off with headaches

Sagging like fragile stems

Under heavy blossoms

Quick to yellow.

I was only good to the laurels.
Something happened in Hydrangea Lane
And I bittered from the gaudy flowers,
Their unquenchable roots,

And my own cloddishness,

Stomping and squashing,
Over-underwatering,

Swamping the aisles between pots
Leaving soil sucked dry.

POETRY

The laurels were gentle, sturdy,

Tired from storms all summer,

Leaning on the fence, a neighbor,

Or suspended somehow in the soupy air.
I was kind and they were generous,
Grateful root balls drenched

Half underground and bound in burlap.

N
—

POETRY

RETURNING TO THE BLUE MOUNTAINS

GAVIA BOYDEN

where my childhood bears relocated
in donut honey traps
and left pawfuls of butterflies

in the gravel drive

the main road smelled like thick oil
and dark berries, a musky wildcat
lunging into the thistles tawny,

by strawberry lane

a rainbow trout head against
river rock made me turn away
to dipper witness,

path middled by velcro weeds

my mom and i pressed our sleds to our chests
as the snow plow sucked by,

and now i twist up with the memories
and where did the color go

all the bears are casinos

all the rivers, tame.

CRIMSON HORIZON
Sammi Bergren
acrylic on canvas

—-ooo-coao-o

5
NaN

N

ies)

FICTION

oKo=—o0 — 4

BRIDGES OF ANIMACY

LILA COVAL

In my hometown, behind the church school where we used to walk the dogs and
down the hill that taught us to sled, sits a creek. I know her by the name she’s been
given, but not by the name she prefers. My father used to drag me down to the creek
and hold my hand as I stepped across the rocks slippery with algae and mud; in the
winter, he'd keep a steady hand on the back of my jacket when we balanced on the
creek’s body turned to ice and snow.

Last night, I went to the creek alone. My father didn’t hear me leave, and for the
fraction of a second it took to slip out the front door, I considered turning back. I
carried the shame of my momentary hesitation down the driveway, across the street,
all the way to the church school, and down the hill. The wind whispered to me
through the voice of the trees and I knew better than to hum along. Their song was
not one I knew, and the birds supported the harmonies without the need for human
intervention.

‘There was no one at the creek when I arrived, and I dipped my fingers into the
water to feel her heartbeat. I opened my mouth to greet her, but no sound came
out—lI was there to listen. In the dirt beside the creek, I closed my eyes and laid back,
caring not for the grass in my hair and the dragonflies circling my body. For a long
moment, I heard nothing but my breathing.

My breathing was the breeze through the leaves, the squirrels rustling through the
underbrush, the chirp of crickets somewhere invisible to me, and the creek.

‘The water kissed my fingertips and laughed when I flinched. She asked why I was
afraid of her, she told me that only the guilty fear the world from which they were
created. My confusion was met with a hum, a low sound that coated the rocks by my
feet. Goosebumps erupted up my arms.

Perhaps you should fear me, she whispered, quiet and seductive, and she traced the
curves of my knuckles, first the pinky, then my ring finger. When she reached my
thumb, our breathing grew louder. You have been told what I am, not who I am.

I recalled my favorite book from my childhood, one of dragons and magic and
war, and the words embroidered into the adolescent fabric of my mind: “The sea is
emotion incarnate. It loves, hates, and weeps. It defies all attempts to capture it with
words and rejects all shackles. No matter what you say about it, there is always that
which you can't.” And such were the words of my fear, my guilt, the separation.

FICTION

You see?

‘The goosebumps on my skin did not smooth, and the creek grew louder still.

Am I just water, child?

Grass and pebbles scraped my neck when I shook my head. Because ‘water’ was
just a word, just a lifeless, static excuse for an unnecessary division. My heart pound-
ed in my chest, battling against my ribcage and fighting to return to the Earth—was I
worthy of the blood in my veins, the creek roaring beneath my skin?

My lips cracked open at last, and the thick perfume of the moss just inches from
my ear caressed my tongue, greeting a friend it had not ever known. “But I take my
shoes off to step in mud and I take my gloves off to hold snow, I take my sweatshirt
off to embrace the wind and I take off my coat to give the rain a softer landing,” I
whispered, a desperate plea punctuated by the shame warming my cheeks, “what
more can I give?”

A bee buzzed above me, meeting the pitch of the creek’s soft purr.

“I step around the fallen flower petals in the street, I do! I collect rocks and then
put them back, with their friends and family, I stop my car and remove animals from
the road—”

The creek gurgled and bubbled, spitting at my chest. My shirt soaked through to
my skin, tightening and leaching the air from my lungs. The river trapped within my
flesh churned and crashed.

Silence, the creek hissed, and the birds stilled in the trees, the wind rested in the
branches, and the squirrels stood up straight. I closed my mouth, but the taste of
moss and my insignificance stuck to my teeth.

Silence endured, broken only by the breathing of the creek and the grass under-
neath my head. My heartbeat followed the pulse of the dirt, the dragonflies, and the
tree roots. We breathed together, in-out, in-out, in-out, until my shirt was dry and
the tension from my shoulders had melted into the late summer air. We breathed
together, our pulse proof of our connection, the truth with which the separation I'd
come looking to remedy could be undone.

‘The creek laced around my fingers and pulled me to her unruly body. Remember
the way we were always meant to be? We mustn't forget the depth beneath our shared skin,
child, for without it, we are nothing.

Around us, the wind resumed her trill, the birds picked up the harmonies, and
the trees helped me to my feet. I wiped the creek from my eyes, and never had I seen
so much life.

—ybzt

—-<-o-—- 00 —co

NJ
Nn

NONFICTION

A FAUSTIAN BARGAIN

LAUREN WANDER

Faustian Bargain (n.): A mythical bargain inspired by the iconic tragic play: Faust.

In this infamous play by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Faust trades his soul to
the devil in exchange for knowledge. To “strike a Faustian bargain” is essentially a
metaphor for being willing to sacrifice anything (one’s soul, free will, emotions, etc.)
in order to satisfy a limitless desire (usually for power or knowledge). Neither option
one nor option two will leave you fully satisfied. So which do you pick?

Option one consists of morality and purpose but may take one human an entire
lifetime to feel fully satisfied by. Option two comes quickly but at a price. What price
is too high for man’s worldly desires, knowledge, and pleasure? As an old man still
not satisfied with his life, Faust is willing to do whatever it takes to feel pleasure and
satisfaction before his time on Earth is over. When things look bleak and desolate,
humans have a tendency to search for a short-term reprieve from their suffering. As
Faust’s time on Earth dwindles and his happiness declines, he decides the instant
gratification of making a Faustian bargain is worth the sacrifice.

What is the price of Enlightenment? The Romantic period came about as a direct
rebound to a period known as the Enlightenment. Eras, such as those widely ac-
knowledged in literature, often ebb and flow in an action/reaction pattern. During
the Enlightenment (late 17-early 19th C), natural laws governed the universe. This
was the era of discovery; Newton, Galileo, and Fahrenheit made their famous discov-
eries and progress was unending. But most importantly, the general populace valued
reason over emotion. From one extreme end of the spectrum to another, the Roman-
tic era (late 18-mid 19th C) evolved out of an equal and opposite reaction.

The cost of the objective and technological bettering present during the Enlight-
enment is the loss of personality and the freedom of emotion, hence why it emerged
so powerfully in the Romantic era. In the context of the poem, the cost of Faust’s bar-
gain for enlightenment is his soul. But this all could be symbolism for Faus’s author,

5 Goethe, and his interesting transition from a Romantic to an Enlightenment thinker.
g This is technically considered a travel back in time. There must be a cost to Enlight-
O enment, so why make this cataclysmic transition? Goethe may have believed that the
1 Romantics let emotion control them too much; he may have decided Enlightenment
i was for him because he was a realist. Or maybe, Goethe was inspired by the charac-
q ters in his very own story.

76 S04

NONFICTION

Power used without conscience becomes corruption. This is where similarities
can be eerily drawn between the story of Faust and the current state of the world in
the 21st century. One of my favorite things I learned through my deep dive into the
story of Faust is a lesson on dichotomy, meaning good and evil are not two separate
things but two sides of the same coin. Now, in the Meta-modern era, we as a collec-
tive have made the decision that the bettering of technology and the quickening of
pace are worth whatever cost they’re connected with; we have essentially made the
Faustian bargain. We've sold much of our individuality and humanism in order to see
things get bigger, better, and faster.

What many 21st-century humans fail to realize is the stark difference between
knowledge and wisdom. An over-saturation of hubris and ambition is not good for
the Earth; when one is too prideful and materialistic, I believe they will someday reap
the consequences, whether they believe it or not. With themes of good vs evil and
destiny vs free will, Faust can serve as an applicable cautionary tale to today’s ongoing
technological revolution. This is not to say technology is all evil; the Faustian bargain
itself is only a bargain because both options include both pros and cons. Of course
life today is much easier, convenient, elongated, and pleasurable due to technological
advancement, but just because it’s good doesn’t mean it’s perfect.

Goethe may have believed that the Romantics let emotion control them too
much; he made this leap backward because he was drowning in it. Goethe's transition
from Romantic to Enlightenment is very contradictory to Faust; in the story, Faust is
warned against letting Enlightenment, e.g. greed for knowledge, overwhelm and take
too much control over him. Yet, the author himself decides to become more of an
Enlightenment thinker. One answer to this question that I’ve been mulling over for
a while now is that Goethe may have been depressed himself. In the story of Faust,
the old man seeks knowledge and pleasure as his life without this greed is unsatisfac-
tory due to depression. It is not uncommon for an author to write about what they
relate to. This could’ve been Goethe's very struggle when writing this famous work.
He wrote, “A man sees in the world what he carries in his heart”. Thus if this Ro-
mantic viewpoint meant that Goethe’s entire world would be gloomy and gray, it is
no surprise he resorted to Enlightenment where knowledge and pleasure could hold

ultimate purpose and meaning. a
Goethe may have decided to take more of an Enlightenment stance because he ‘
was a realist. Many 21st-century humans find themselves being realists more often Oo
than not as proved by our continuous advancement. ‘Thus, this story reads, to me, :
fully as symbolism or a metaphor to teach a lesson. Putting a story to a life lesson, 4
certain morals, ideas, warnings, etc. has been done for centuries to make difficult oO
1

TB v7

NONFICTION

~—
(oe)

topics more digestible for the common population who typically may not read about
such things. It is easier for people to learn from people rather than seemingly arbi-
trary facts or nonfiction. I prefer to psychologize Mephistopheles. It is not truly the
devil who will seek you out when you feel lust or greed for material items; this is
simply symbolism and metaphor to convince the reader against doing such things in
real life. This psychological take is also a very Enlightenment take.

It is absolutely horrible to admit, but we are following the path that all other
literary and societal eras have followed in the past. Since we've spent the past century
or two in an era of constant bettering, lengthening lives, industrial and medical revo-
lutions, and relative peace, it is about time that the scale tips and we see an equal and
opposite reaction. We've done too much advancing and taken too much of the hu-
man aspect out of a human society. We are entering an emotional depression. Goethe
makes a jump back in time from a Romantic thinker to an Enlightenment thinker
and it is because he was depressed just like Faust. Sometimes depression makes you
take the easiest and quickest way possible just to feel happiness, but I think everyone
knows that the quickest and easiest way is often not the right way. We are like Faust.
And though we don’t like to admit it, we’re making a startling transition back in time
to a period where bettering is valued over personality and emotion.

Goethe said, “Two souls live in me, alas, irreconcilable with one another”. This
duality represents conflicting desires, beliefs, or moral principles. Faust is torn be-
tween opposing forces within himself, causing internal struggle. The irreconcilability
could signify a conflict between different aspects of Faust’s personality or ethics.

‘This quote makes the grand idea of the play much smaller; there are broader themes
such as the struggle between good and evil, the spiritual and the material, or the
conflicting desires for knowledge and contentment. We are not doomed. Though
we've witnessed the dehumanization of many once-human things, including (but not
limited to) jobs and creative ventures, the fact that good and evil are two sides of the
same coin can also be looked at in a positive light. Faust redeems himself at the end
of the play. Though he’s struck a deal with the devil himself, the story ends with him
dying and going to heaven. Margeretta, the character who allows Faust to have a re-
demption arc, represents deep and personal humility. Through childbirth, Faust’s new
beginnings are represented both literally and metaphorically. He overcomes destiny
and achieves redemption by repenting; after he sees Margeretta, her past innocence,
and her love for him, he repents and is sent to heaven.

‘The moral: we have time. We, Meta-modern humans, have time yet to fill the
hole we've dug collectively. Neither option one nor option two will leave you fully
satisfied. So which option do I choose? And therein lies the answer. I choose the op-

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NONFICTION

tion in which I have a choice. The cost of option two is that of freedom and expres-
sion, which can also be argued as the cost of ultimate Enlightenment by the defini-

tion of modern world literature. My life becomes worth living when it is only mine.
And I will find meaning in that freedom.

NI
\o

POETRY

oooo-oa-a

THE EVER-GLADES

NICO SACCO

Whoever flooded these grasslands
Forgot about us;

Forgot we were

Baptized in these

Snake-infested waters.

Anointed in the
Cacophonous cries
Of our neighbors chanting

“This soil caused us pain,”

I like to think this swamp

Hasn't changed since we got here,

But under those plastic bags

Waving with liberty,

‘The crumpled beer cans sing

“This land was made for you and me.”

I look at our American-marked bodies
Inside this tortured temple,

Praying that God,

With Her eyes on the flooders,

Will send a seaside sparrow

To their thrones,

To their office desks,

And their fossil-fueled jets

So that they will never neglect

‘The beauty of these marshes again.
Better yet, I pray for Her to flood their own forests,

So that they recognize the resilience it took to gain feathers.

Searching for Peace,

I would hold her hand

Till our palms sweat

A thick love.

And our children would steep
Their bodies with playful innocence
Far from these infested waters,
Inheriting our hope

In searching for the shoreline.

POETRY

—-ocooo-o-—o

(oe)
—

POETRY

ALL THAT WAS, ALL THAT WILL BE

AVERY COMES

I am the first womb
in everything you know

I mark the earth in simple etches
and palms of blood

I am the love between mud and bare feet
natural and native

I am the elements from rain to heat
living at their command

From my touch upon you
You are encouraged.

I serve the lights of night
to Her I vow, I tend
As peasants scrape their knees in bows
when I walk, men—
Emperors—worship my feet
for I am sacred in peaceful places
Wise and all knowing
a daughter
Goddess of the hearth in

awe and revered you shall be.

We are meant to be celebrated
yet the children and their father
drag home dirt and eat your life with
fatigue and infant eyes and time
I see them still suffocating my casket-
lying down over it
none of my favorite flowers.

Try to keep breathing for me.

FICTION

oo 6c o— oc

(oe)
oN

IT HAPPENED LAST NIGHT

LILY TUTTLE

My grandmother visited me last night. I hadn't received any prior notice from
her, nor had she made any attempt to contact me beforehand. I didn’t even know she
was aware of where I made my home. She looked about the same as I last remember
her, but her hair is now a starker white, and her veins are much more visible. She is
so very tiny, nearly skeletal with age. She has always had a slight figure, as she nev-
er really put on any weight through each of her seven pregnancies. Along with her
ever-bobbed hair, she was the perfect picture of a woman who had most of her life’s
defining moments in the forties and fifties. She owes her nickname “pixie” to these
traits, but her deafness most definitely sold the delicate image she presented. I am
told often that I resemble her, but I wouldn’t dare approach her with this idea. She is
not a frightening woman by any means, but I am rather scared of the possibility that
she disagrees.

She came alone. My grandmother only recently learned to drive and was making
good use of her issued license. My grandpa never liked the idea of her behind the
wheel. Whether it was out of concern for a potential accident or traditional values,

I can't discern. Regardless, as their age climbed in years, their ideals cooled. I don’t
remember exactly the events that followed her knocking on my door, but I will try
my best to recount what happened.

She looked at me expectantly, standing in the front doorway of my home. Our
eyes were now level, where they once were mine, looking up into hers. I should have
been more surprised to see her, but I only felt warm and delighted to see her face
once again. Her face’s paper-thin skin stretched to match my smile. There had been
a long period of time where we hadn’t communicated. As a result, I never learned
to sign. My dad, her seventh son, never bothered to teach me. He once said, “It’s no
use.”

I can handle fingerspelling and the rudimentary signs that a baby learns when
their parents are concerned with the rate of their speech development, but nothing
too complex. I welcomed her in, helping her take her coat off, and unloaded the rest
of her winter gear. Her pale head and white hair hovered above a cardigan made of
cardinal red wool, her veiny hands flattening her flowy khaki pants. She wore Birken-
stock sandals akin to Jesus’ and thick, woolen socks. Ushering her into the living
room, a warmer part of my home, she waved me off with an impish smile. She was

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in no rush. I proposed a drink with a primitive sign, and she accepted as she moved
slowly to sit down on the very end of my couch. This is where she usually sat on the
flannel sofa of the childhood home of my dad. It was heartwarming to see that not
much had changed.

Handing her her drink, I sat parallel to her in an armchair. We sat for a bit while
she occasionally sipped from her glass. She was very poised, but that wasn’t anything
new. I wanted to ask her so many questions at that moment. What perfume do you
wear? How do you set your curlers in your hair overnight? Do you remember tucking
in my dad at night? Are you proud of who I have become? Instead, we just bathed in
the silence. Her face had a pleasant blankness as she stared off at mid-distance, not
displeased or overwhelmed. I remember remarking to myself how odd it was that she
visited that night, as I had just been thinking about her the day before. Now, howev-
er, I suppose it isn’t really that odd, as I think of her often. I think of her when I talk
to my dad or look in the mirror. I see her in the movies I watch. I remember my dad
telling me she never liked Barbara Stanwyck and the sneer she always seemed to have,
despite how prolific she was, and how often my grandma would attend her movies.
We never got around to discussing her last night. I broke the pregnant air, writing a
question upon a pad of paper.

Why did you come tonight? To which she answered,

Ive been visiting everyone while Grandpa is away.

She set the pen down and looked at me. Her script was impeccable, despite a
small shake in her hand. I smiled and nodded at her, satisfied with this, almost imme-
diately thereafter, becoming self-conscious. What if I disappointed her in comparison
to the rest of my family? I couldn’t use my parents as a reason for my countenance or
behavior anymore—I’ve unfortunately grown since we last met. One of my cousins
has her Master’s. Too many of them to count are married with children. Almost all of
them had spent more time with her than I had. I became disillusioned with every-
thing I'd previously called an accomplishment. What have I to show her? All I really
had to offer her was the fact that we look alike.

She was looking around the room now. Her head gracefully revolved as her tired
eyes landed on photos hung on the wall and mementos scattered about. I watched
her very closely. I tried to gauge whether she approved of the photos I have of her and
my grandpa, her husband, and of the photos of her whole, large family of nine. She
never pointed them out in any way, never stopping her roving gaze. She masterfully
avoided glancing at or referencing the small urns that sat above the fireplace. Instead
of smiling at the photos illustrating her life, she smiled slightly at the photos I had
accrued of my own thus far. She continued to peer around, until her eyes settled on

—pbzt

—o-o-o—-co

joe)
WN

FICTION

a——-o-o—-o

the paper and pen, her shaking hand making picking it up seem like a lot of effort.

Your sister? She wrote. I smiled, and wrote back,

Good. She has a boyfriend and a job.

I set the pen down. She smiled at that. She will likely visit them next. I felt a
tinge of jealousy at the idea, as my sister spent more time with my grandma in her
youth. I, in turn, was the second youngest of all of her grandchildren, and hadn't
grown up as close as my sister had to where my grandparents lived. As my sister and
I grew up, making the visits to the deep Midwest became an impossibility with our
family’s distance and commitments back home. My grandma and I just looked at
each other. It had been far too long. Her unfamiliar, stale, flowery scent mingled with
the smell I had always known and made me feel a tad guilty I hadn't made the trip
myself, and sooner.

She let out a small breath of air through her nose as she pointed at me, then
forced her right hand through her left, upwards in front of her body, then squeezed
her hand and pulled it down in a short motion. She then took her right hand and
floated her splayed hand in a downward, sweeping motion in front of her face. These
signs were familiar, as she had greeted my sister and me with them every time we had
visited her. She was being very gracious in how simple she was keeping her small talk.
I understood that she said I was growing older, but my memory was failing me on the
second sign. She cocked her head and widened her half smile. She wrote quickly,

Youre growing older. Pretty.

I smiled at her and shook my head. It never got easier to accept it, despite her
consistent insistence. She patted my hand and leaned back, reaching for a sip of her
drink.

We continued to sit for a while, until she slowly stood. She began to float around
the room, taking one last look at the shelves and walls laden with memories, and
eventually, ventured out. She looked so feeble, doddering around. I followed her to
my bedroom door, of which she stopped abruptly at. She looked back at me, with ex-
pectant eyes, as if asking permission to enter. I nodded and turned the handle for her.
She seemed unwilling, nearly unable, to do it for herself. I don’t know what she had
planned to do once she entered, and it did not become any clearer as it happened.
She again scoured the photos, trinkets, odds, and ends that were scattered about the
room. She reached the closet and thumbed gently through the hangers, assessing each
piece with a playful eye. Occasionally, her head bobbed in a mark of approval. She
reached for a familiar woolen cardigan sweater and caressed the ironed-on ‘G’ patch
that sat on the left breast of the wearer with trembling fingers. She turned to look at
me and smiled. Her letter sweater fit me quite well. I never wear it anymore in fear

FICTION

of heavy use taking its toll. She put it back in its place and patted my cheek as she
turned to exit. Her hands were very cold, but also very soft.

I have few significant memories of her from when I was younger. We lived too far
apart for any major moments to truly ground themselves in my consciousness, but I
remember one time rather vividly, where her hands were just as soft, but she wasn’t
quite as cold.

I was snooping around my grandparents’ house, committing the floorplan to
memory, inspecting the toys my aunts and uncles used to play with—trying to find
anything to stave off the perpetual boredom that seemed to come from a hot mid-
western summer. I found myself in my grandparents’ room, poking around in their
belongings. My grandma’s closet held my interest the longest, and I took my time
looking through each piece. Her red letter sweater was dated, but beautifully made.
‘The ‘G’ patch felt soft to my small hands. I hadn’t realized that in my time in the
closet, my grandma had entered the room. I began to leave bashfully, when she gently
grabbed my face with her hands. They were warm and soft as she bent her head to
kiss the top of mine. She wasn’t visibly mad at me as she ushered me out of her room,
but my parents were. They had told me not to go in there, but my boredom and curi-
osity were chiefly in charge of my whims, and the enigma of who exactly my grand-
parents were was too hard to ignore.

I never really figured out what exactly made them enigmatic. My grandma, stand-
ing before me last night, was still the mystery she was that summer day. Potentially
even more so.

I followed her out of my bedroom, making our way back to the living room. Her
movements were silent, the floor didn’t creak, and the sofa made no noise as it ac-
commodated her. She sighed and looked at me, and then at the clock hanging above
the doorway. It was nearing eleven, I would have likely already been getting ready for
bed had it been a normal night. I proposed she sleep over for the night through the
medium of the pad of paper, as driving that late would be far too dangerous in the
weather indicated on the forecast. She agreed with the idea, nodding. I insisted she
take my bed, but she was obstinate. She wanted the couch, and I was not going to
refuse her, so I left to fetch blankets and pillows.

I returned to her sitting in the same place, her eyes once again roving around
the photos on every wall. She was still and pale against the darkened room. I moved
to start setting up her makeshift bed, and she stood to help further adjust the sheet
across the couch.

‘The pen and paper still lay on the coffee table, our previous writings taking up
about a third of the page. If any outsider were to read our conversation, they'd likely

pbk

(oe)
N

FICTION

ont |—|0o0—o

(oe)
(oe)

assume we were just acquaintances catching up, our relationship equivalent to that
of two coworkers that share a cubicle wall. In an attempt to seek some closure and
reconcile the enigma before she went to bed, I grabbed the pen once more. As she
finished making the couch, I quickly scribed,

Do you remember being my age? Wearing that sweater?

She peeked over the top of the pad and grabbed it, adjusting it to the light of the
dim table lamp. Her eyes passed from the paper to my face a few times. Her hand
with the pad of paper dropped to her side, and she sighed. She took a seat on the
freshly made couch and began to write her reply. She no longer had an overt sense of
humor in the manner she held herself, but rather, seemed a bit dejected. She finished
writing and handed me the pad.

No, not really. When I imagine you in it, I get a bit closer to remembering.

It brought me solace that we were one in the same, looking for our answers in the
other. She patted me gently on the shoulder in a loving gesture and began to settle
in for the night. Once she made herself comfortable, I pulled the blanket just under-
neath her chin and kissed the top of her head in a reciprocal gesture—doing what
she once would have done for me. She smiled and waved me off. I shook a familiar ‘I
love you’ sign at her, and she did the same, sleepily. I took one last look at her before
I made my way to bed. I couldn’t see her face, but her wispy, white hair spilled a bit
over the couch’s arm. The antiquated lamp atop the end table flickered and crackled
slightly as her hand drew nearer to the string to turn it off. That was the last I saw of
her.

In the early morning, she was gone. ‘The sheets and pillows were left behind, and
looked as if they were untouched from the time she'd laid down last night. I peered
out my large front window in search of answers, only to find a dusting of snow. The
sky was still dark, the moon hadn't yet set, but the sun was preparing to begin its
regular routine. A couple of cardinals sat in a tree, while a rabbit sniffed around the
trunk, leaving delicate tracks in its wake. I looked farther to the left of the tree that
stood guard in my front yard. There were no tire tracks in my driveway. Had she
gone before the snowfall? The drink I had made for her stood full on the coffee table
next to the couch. Next to the glass sat piles of open scrapbooks. Those had not been
previously opened, and I inferred she grabbed them out after I had retired to bed. All
of them had once belonged to my dad before he had died.

‘The books chronicled everything in my family’s history, from when my grand-
parents got married to the day my dad graduated from university. New notes were
scribbled in the margins with the same pen I had used to communicate with my
grandmother the night before. The notes elaborated on what was happening in the

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photos. ‘They all appeared to be hastily scribbled, as if she were trying to meet a quota
of some sort. Perhaps she took my evident interest in her past, exhibited by the plen-
tiful photos lining the walls, as a sign to explain the images for which I had no refer-
ence for. It was hard to make out what each blurb was saying, and despite my work in
deciphering them, many ended up being unintelligible, or regarding the photos I was
familiar with, simply bore false information. In quite a few inexcusable instances, she
referred to my father by one of his brothers’ names, or vice versa. I flipped through
the pages of one of the books haphazardly, finally coming to the end. The woman was
relentless in her pursuit to say anything about everything on the pages. On the final,
previously empty page, she erratically jotted down a list of seemingly every actor and
actress she could remember from her cinema-going days. Next to each name she list-
ed one or two movies they had belonged to. Alongside this, assorted phone numbers
lined the page. She never listed the purpose of each. The demented writing spanned
many pages, and every photo and name fell victim to some description or another.
The half-crazed woman I envisioned writing this nonsense didn’t align with the ver-
sion of herself she presented the night before. It was glaringly obvious to me that she
hadn’ gotten any sleep, perhaps in quite a while. I was ashamed that I had kept her
up so late instead of inviting her to sleep at the earliest convenience in her visit.

It struck me as I flicked through the pages, how very cold it was in the house.
The hairs on my neck were raised, ever so slightly. In her evident haste and muddled
mindset, we never really got the chance to say goodbye. That always seemed to be the
case with her and the rest of my family. Every time we met, and consequently had
to part, we always inferred we would see one another again, there was no need for
a “goodbye.” It was the natural order of things until it wasn’t. With her abrupt exit,
she had left as quickly as she had arrived, leaving it unsettled as to when we'd see one
another again—and leaving me feeling rather unsettled as well.

joe)
No)

SHADES OF LIFE

AVERY COMES

1. A hot blush flooding the skin

Maybe he finally asked you. Smiled a little, called you beautiful. Scooted clos-
er to feel your warmth. You laughed, nervous. Your dad’s right outside. He touches
your cheek.

Maybe you messed up. Said something stupid. Your voice cracked awfully—
puberty hit you hard. You wish to rewind. You can’t. Your eyes are watering.

Maybe youre running. Chest heaving, sweating, a grin stretched over your
face. You're cheering your sister on, your best friend. She’s the professional, youre just
the cheerleader. She’s almost at the finish line. A part of you wishes you could switch
places.

2. A leaf settling on the ground

Maybe the sun shines through it as it falls. You're walking slowly by the lake.
Your feet strike the path, crunching others just like this one. A warm coffee in your
hand and cool air in your lungs. It’s fall.

Maybe you are playing in your backyard, young and carefree. You don’t have
any homework this weekend, just endless hours to play. Your dad swept the leaves
into a pile. You jump.

3. A sunbeam shining down

Maybe you are near the sea. It’s so hot, and the umbrella only covers half your
body. The other half burns, but you aren't ready to go back to swimming. You look at
the reflections on the water, dazed. You only get this once a year.

Maybe it is hidden away by clouds. ‘The rain falls and youre tired. You've been
in the car for hours, the droplets so repetitive they sound static. But for a moment, it
emerges. The sky glows with an arc of light. You are entranced.

4, A woven sweater of deep emerald

Maybe it was passed down from sibling to sibling. Oversized and comfy. You
always admired it on her, stole it once or twice. Eventually, it was gifted to you.

Maybe it was brought with me during the move. Boxes packed and room
bare-sweater folded up. When unfolded in a new city, it will be the first thing worn.
A reminder, familiar.

5. A reflection of water
Maybe it’s the first day of summer. The pool is open, and you are soaking

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up the sun. It’s not your house, but you are welcome anytime. You wish it was your
house, it’s much bigger. Prettier. In the countryside. You know you are never going to
get something like this, not with your arts degree. You'll just leech off them.

Maybe youre sitting on a boat. The motor is new, but the boat is old. Your
family is there, and you complained but went anyway. You hate fishing, so you sit.
Read a little, look at the view. It is calming, even though you were complaining.

Maybe you are washing your hands. Outside the door is loud—sometimes fun,
sometimes tense. You needed a minute to breathe, look at your phone. You are fine,
but your body doesn’t always agree. Nothing is wrong, yet everything is shaking.

6. A wildflower stands tall, alone

Maybe you are wandering the woods. It’s cold and getting dark, but you ar-
en't done yet. The trees go on forever. You want to walk forever. That’s a lie, you want
to go inside eventually—you are too much of an old soul.

Maybe youre sitting on a curb. The flower is more like a weed, and you
would pull on it if your hands wouldn't get dirty. So you leave it alone.

Maybe you are the wildflower.

Maybe you are made of the colors around you.

FICTION

MANNY’S LAST DAY AT WORK

SAKTHIKA VIJAY

When Junia was young, she would sleep with tomorrow’s clothes next to her be-
fore a field trip. It made me jealous; I don’t think I’ve been that excited for anything
in a long time.

Well, until today.

When my usual alarm rang at 4:30 AM, I sprang out of bed and straight to the
shower. I felt like those helium balloons you find at birthday parties, like I had some-
thing in me that made me lighter than air. I smiled at my reflection in the mirror
for the first time in years, and even the cold shower didn’t seem as bad as usual. Hot
water was a luxury these days, but it didn’t matter anymore, because I was getting a
luxury of my own.

I was going to see my family.

Tucking my shirt into my pants, I made sure my uniform of a light blue but-
ton-down and navy pants looked perfect in the grimy mirror next to the door. I
hadn't seen my daughter or wife in ten years, and by the end of the day I finally
would’ve saved enough to get the ticket. I needed to make sure I looked my best, and
not show them the last ten years of war and suffering.

‘The war that had almost made it across the ocean to New York. The war that
dropped a bomb in Toronto the other day. The war that was going to wipe us all out,
but no one was paying attention.

I opened the Dreamico app on my phone and clocked in.

New York was the same as always, bleak and cold. No one else knew about my
important day; they were all worrying about the war that was inching closer and clos-
er. I gave the billboard of Dreamicos billionaire CEO a smile as I walked.

Im almost done with you, asshat!

I was in business school when Dreamico was founded; we studied the story in
our textbooks. Ryan Keller was a young psychologist who noticed almost every single
one of his patients suffered from maladaptive daydreaming. “Suffered” might be the
wrong word there—they /avished in the made-up worlds in their minds. In their
imaginations, the ugly were pretty. The poor were rich, the lonely were loved, and
everyone found an escape from their monotonous lives.

And, naturally, he found a way to profit off that depression.

My phone guided me below a busy highway. I frowned as my eyes adjusted to the

\S
Oo

FICTION

darkness, needing to close them and collect myself at the sight hidden from all the
cars on the highway above me.

Me and the dozens of bodies scattered on the dirty pavement.

Their tattered clothes and blankets made it obvious who they were. I pushed a
shopping cart away from me, trying my best not to roll it over anyone’s hands. Not
that I thought they feel it. They all had their eyes closed, breathing evenly. Water
dripped from the bridge onto an old lady’s head, but she didn’t—or couldn’t—notice.
I bent down and gently moved her away from the steady drip.

Each had something that looked like wireless earbuds in their ears: they were
black in color with a thin band that stretched across their foreheads and around the
back of their heads.

The Dreamico devices looked like a demented crown. A crown that lets you
escape to your dreamworld for $299 USD. A crown that changed the world, making
people not want to spend time with anyone anymore. Why would they? When they
could rush home to their beds, strap on their crown, and live in a world that fits their
every need.

I knelt down next to a middle-aged man who resembled the picture on my
phone, pulled out my own device from my bag, put it on, and touched the back of
the homeless man’s head, closing my eyes as I felt the familiar tingling sensation in
my brain. His name was—

—CLANG!

“J-Jerry!” I ducked behind the closest thing I could find, holding my shoulder as
the video game controller that had been thrown at it fell next to my feet.

“If you tryna take it away from me—I—I’m not lettin’ you! I'll shoot you in your
fuck—”

“Tm not taking your Dreamico away from you!” I promised, peeking up from the
leather recliner I was hiding behind.

“Y-You're not?” The man—/erry-lowered the second controller in his hand, “A-Are
you lyin’ to me? “Cause I swear to god.”

“Tm not. I’m Manny, the mechanic. I’m here about the maintenance problem
you put in a few months ago, something about a popcorn machine?”

“Manny the mechanic? ‘That’s funny.”

I smiled, pretending to roll my eyes. “Never heard that one before.”

“Come here, Manny the mechanic.” Jerry motioned to follow him and turned
around. He wore a black hoodie and sweats, and looked younger than in real life.

I finally straightened all the way up and looked around. We were in a basement. It
wasnt too big. There were LED lights on the ceiling and a giant Plasma TV that

FICTION

made the setup look cozy. And warm. I unbuttoned my collar, starting to sweat from
how the heat was blasting.

“T put in the request months ago, almost fuckin’ forgot about it.” There was a
mini bar on the other end of the man cave Jerry had set up, complete with a movie
popcorn machine. The popcorn in the machine was bright pink.

“All my food’s pink. I don’t know why. I don’t think I broke anything.”

“Tt’s probably just an optic wire that’s loose,” I muttered, looking around again.
“Tt’s an easy fix, but I'll just replace your Dreamico. Tell me one thing, though,”

“What's up?” Jerry hopped up onto the counter.

“Why all the recliners?” I motioned to the six single recliners scattered around the
room. “Can't you just make up a couch?”

“T’ve sat on couches. Recliners are for hoity toity people, so I want ‘em. A game
room full of recliners.” He giggled like a kid, making me smile too. “I’m livin’ the
dream. I was scared the government was finally gonna take it away from me.”

My smile faded as I recalled where I had just come from, and the reality Jerry had
forgotten. A few years ago, the government signed a deal with Dreamico. They paid
millions to distribute the device to the homeless. It was a simple fix to the problem;
the homeless stayed out of the public’s eye in their dream worlds, thinking about an
endless supply of food or recliners.

“Right, they wouldn't want us homeless folk in your eyesights. Sitting on your
buses, making y'all uncomfortable. Tell you what,” Jerry hopped down, “Could you
not change anything? Keep it all pink?”

“Why would you want that?”

“Tm honestly kinda used to it, with how long you took to get here. It reminds
me that, at least in this world, I can be fuckin’ warm and full. That when I wake up
for food that ain't pink, I still have this world waiting for me. Will you do that? Just
leave?”

I nodded, frowning a little. “Okay. Is there anything else you need?”

“No, leave. I wanna play COD.”

He plopped onto a recliner, and I took my cue, closing my eyes, only open-
ing them when I felt the light stabilize outside. I looked back at the much older,
wrinkled, tired Jerry sitting against a cement pole and shivered. Reality was colder
compared to his virtual world. I grabbed a discarded blanket from the ground and
wrapped it around his shoulders.

My last case before lunch was on the Upper East Side. Richer neighborhoods al-
ways felt emptier these days. They all had servants and maids to bring them food and

—pbzt

\6
Nn

FICTION

Sot og, =—'o

water and didn’t have to leave their dream worlds too often. I passed another Dreami-
co worker as I entered an apartment complex. We nodded at each other.

The client’s name was Jane, and she lived in one of the penthouses. ‘The elevator
ride was long, all the way to the top. When I stepped out, however, I noticed the
apartment was a lot shabbier than I expected. Sure, there was an elegant curved stair-
case, mahogany furnishings, and a magnificent crystal chandelier in the center of the
living room. But a closer look would reveal that there was dust on the table, and the
couches looked a little worn.

Old money doesn’t always mean current money.

‘There weren't any workers to guide me upstairs, so I followed the instructions on
my phone to the master bedroom where Jane was lying on her bed. ‘The satin sheets
were unruffled and perfect as I sat next to her and connected to her reality—or virtu-
al world, whichever one it was, but I knew which word she preferred when I saw the
sharp collar bones that protruded painfully from her chest.

I opened my eyes to the same room, just a little brighter. Sunlight streamed
through the window, falling on a couple kissing so hard they didn’t even notice me.
The tall man, shirt unbuttoned, had his elbows around a youthful Jane. She held
onto his hair, making shameless noises.

I cleared my throat, coughing loudly.

‘They groaned, releasing each other and looking at me.

“Dont you know it’s creepy watching people be intimate?” The man—who
looked like a Calvin Klein model—asked me, shooting daggers with his eyes. I never
liked addressing figments of imaginations. They never looked real enough to me; the
technology wasnt there yet. I knew Jane was the one making him say those things, so
I talked to her.

“Sorry, maam, but your Dreamico alerted us that you haven't left your dream in
two days. Your vitals are low, and you need food and water.”

“I know how to take care of my lady, Manny,” the man said, reading my name
tag.

“Maybe in this world, but I need you to sign this waiver stating you will come
back for sustenance soon. And, if not, we warned you of the consequences.”

“Give it here.” Jane wrapped her nightgown tighter around her body and drew a
sprawling signature on the papers. “Just one question, Manny.”

“What is it, ma'am?”

“How much longer do I have based on my vitals?”

“Five hours, ma’am. So, it’s imperative you leave with me, or at least leave soon.”

She nodded, grabbed the man’s hand, and looked back up at me. Her eyes had

FICTION

some expression I couldn't quite read. “Could you do me one favor?”

“Anything.”

“When you go back, could you just give my cheek a kiss? It’s been forever since
she felt a kiss up there.”

“>

“Now, go.” She waved me away, turning back to kiss her man. They fell over, and
I shut my eyes before I saw too much. When everything was silent again, I looked
down at sickly Jane De Barrington. There were no noises, only the clock ticking aim-
lessly away as I sat and thought about the millions like Jane who die in their dreams
every year. Who make their virtual world a reality, and forget themselves. Who have
nothing left anymore, and find an easy way out. I stood, brushing her golden hair
away from her face, and bent down, kissing her forehead gently.

And when I left, I made sure the door was unlocked for the gurney.

T ate a hurried lunch of a cold tuna sandwich on the way to my last ever case.
‘They paid for every case I took as a Dreamico mechanic, and this was the one that
would finally get me enough for the ticket to my family. But, from the case de-
scription, I knew it was going to be a bad one. The neighbors had reported a smell
of something rotting in the home of Miss Valarie Cummings. The paramedics had
found her, barely holding on.

Heartbreakingly, this had happened millions of times before. Dreamico argued in
court that they needed their devices back and won the right to basically kill people
when they were on the verge of death. Their winning argument was related to sus-
tainability. They said they needed to recycle their products so they didn’t pollute the
Earth.

Ironic.

What did it matter? I watched the tanks and explosions on the Times Square
screens, gulping. The war was so close on the maps that New York could fall apart
tomorrow. Was anyone even listening, though?

I found the dingy apartment and walked up three flights. The horrible, rancid
smell I'd come to know all too well got stronger with every step. I covered my mouth
with my sleeve, telling myself I was so close to being done.

Im almost there—to Junia and Katie.

I opened the door to apartment 3418 with the keys the landlord gave me, the
smell so strong my eyes were watering. Something was wrong.

One body shouldn’t smell this bad.

‘The living room was tiny—fifty of them could fit in Jane De Barrington’s master

—oooog——o

\o
N

FICTION

oO

\o
(ee)

bedroom. ‘There was rotting food of some kind on the kitchen counter, clothes were
strewn everywhere, and I could hear the little footsteps of rats.

My sandwich rose up to my throat instantly, but I swallowed it back down.

I repeated my wife and daughter's names over and over again under my breath
as I walked toward the almost-dead body on the couch. Valerie’s face had purple
splotches, and they looked like they continued down under her moth-eaten sweat-
shirt. Her arms only had skin, no muscle clinging to them.

For some reason, most of her hair having fallen out made me the most nauseous.

I yanked the device from her balding head quickly, not pausing to think. I held
my breath, waiting to see if she would open her eyes one last time; if she had it in her
to see reality again, and what had become of it.

Her profile told me that she had been a model. I don’t know what reduced her
to the state in front of me, but I could only imagine. All that hard work and calorie
cutting to end up bald in a rotting apartment.

Maybe her version of reality was better.

A wave of the rotten smell hit me again, and I slowly walked to the other end of
the apartment. There was a bathroom with moldy counters and a mirror so foggy it
didn’t reflect anything anymore. And, there was a bedroom door.

I should’ve left.

But, I still had somewhat of a heart. I nudged the door open with my foot and
closed my eyes at the sight.

‘The paramedics had done a shit job and didn’t check the entire apartment. There
were two children—their corpses on the ground next to a twin bed. One was small,
wearing a onesie so soiled I couldn't make the pattern on it. The older one wore a
hoodie that was way too small. She was curled around her younger brother with what
I assumed was an apple core in her hand.

‘These children had watched their mother slowly fade away, being neglected in the
process.

‘These poor children must have been so hungry and confused, with no one to call.

‘These poor children...were one in a million.

I tore the door open, running out of that retched apartment to vomit on the
street. Not that anyone was around to see. I didn’t let it slow me down; I continued
running across Times Square as I wiped my mouth, all the way to the huge Dreamico
headquarters at the center of town.

I slid my phone across the table to the receptionist, “I n-need one Forevico ticket,
p-please,” I managed to rasp out.

The blonde receptionist with tired eyes took my phone to check my earnings and

6

= y

LN

FICTION

pulled a form out from under her desk. “Sign the consent form. We've had so many
employees ask recently that I always have a few printed.”

I signed it without bothering to read anything.

“There.” I shoved it into her hands, walking toward the doors I’ve been eyeing
since the day I got the job. It was on the other end of the cold lobby, and I didn’t
bother waiting for the receptionist.

My wife and daughter were in there.

I pushed through the white doors to a massive room. I knew what was going to
meet my eyes, but it still took my breath away. It was the size of an airplane hangar.
‘There were dentist chairs as far as the eye could see and people hooked up to IVs.
People who paid an outrageous sum of money to never come back to reality, who
had nurses administer their food and nutrients through tubes, keeping them alive to
dream, to dream about the lives they wished they had, the peace without war, and
family they missed.

“Now hold on!” The receptionist rushed in after me. “Let me find you a nurse—”

“Hook up the IV later,” I told her, hopping into an empty chair with my Dreami-
co in my hand. “I don’t want any more of this world.”

“But, I—” She grasped at her words, “Are you sure? What about your apartment?
what about your family? You don’ need to inform anyone?”

“What does it matter? We’re not gonna be around for much longer anyway,” I
firmly told her, watching her face harden. She bit her lips anxiously as I put my de-
vice on one last time. Not having the heart to stop me, she let me dream.

Or live.

Who knows anymore?

Or

\o
\o

POETRY POETRY

HEALTH REMINDER, FOR PAUL flashes of flame are nothing

but dissipating energy,
pathetic

AVA JAX heatless SFX

His throat tickles,
I gape I stare I
See this kitchen as a sixty-year-old:
Coffee in the Campbell’s mug
Sunbed morning
Winter in summer in winter.
‘The clouds are never cloudy at grandmas
Limp lays the tongue: driest mouth thing
Squint from eternal glare
seeing a solar eclipse behind a droplet-size cutout.
See doorway splinters,
kitchen floor checkered (vinyl)

You feel eternally lost?

You feel eternally alone?

*You found page seventy-three. How much of your
precious time left did you spend flipping here?
‘There are two givens in life: death and inflation and
they don’t sell Neccos or dimes
obsolete. “Dime a dozen” obsolete
my grandma’s Botox masks the
eye bags of generational anxiety
her box dye masks the grey February hair
When I get dementia, I will first miss the memory of third stage hypothermia,
world grown slow.
I blacked out:
the next hour wasn’t mine to keep.

Feel that your coffee will never sweeten,

your bagel eternally stale, your mind saturated?
A certain ageism (nostalgia) sprouts from the projected death of the self, the
childhood self, the self that played the puzzle, the puzzle sunbed, on the crochet
project that never got finished, on the unused dining room table, in the
three/quarters of used skeins, in the yarn shards scattered on the used coffee table
where plinko pegs score repetition as attention so you remember remember
remember.

Health Reminder: Feeling Old at Twenty indicates signs of Early Onset Decay*
Paul (Oh, how I will miss you (do you miss me anymore (please tell me
(what) you remember (about) the mornings we walked PCH) or do you not
remember?) because someday I won't remember) that you never set alarms.

Denial to emotionally grow
old ages one[‘s soul] twelve-fold
hold ember-ed flickering

stones hold youth for over one hundred years,

>-O---o-o-—--2G
—o-—-o o-oo

=
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=
oO
a

POETRY

COMBO BITE

RACHEL SMALL

combo bite cheese and cracker and jam

brown spots on thumbs can’t be cancer

can't be aging

lost every water bottle ever owned

gas pains

ladybug lunchbox

sharks are scary bears are scary the dark heights the ocean tornadoes
splinters mulch wood chips bare feet

chubby kid t-shirt pull

late season flooding can’t go out til july

reformed catholics cry in cathedrals

fake ID for poppers

bulb’s going out won't replace it for months
elementary school bus drills hopping through the back hatch
winter break catch-up with the gas station attendant
always a stomach ache

who the fuck invented overnight oats

orchestra conductor like fifth-grade choir

bronchitis crackle

camera lens fingerprint sounds like car seat headrest
hate leg day skip it

synonyms for crying wailing sobbing weeping bawling
middle school girlfriends

underhand volleyball serve

fox faces in the knots on the walls

autofill passwords

boxed leftovers after dinner

every church basement smells the same

had two tampons in no wonder it hurt

NONFICTION

mn

104

NOTHING BESIDE REMAINS

MAX PRITCHARD

‘The first and only time I ever faked being sick to stay home from school came very
early in my educational career. It would have been first or second grade, and my
parents had just introduced me to YouTube, where I had learned I could watch clips
aplenty from my favorite television shows. I spent much of the day doing exactly
that, and I don’t believe I ever fessed up. Sorry, Mom and Dad, that this is how youre
finding out.

One of the next times I stayed home from school, there was no faking involved.
‘The evidence was clear to see—I had come down with a bad case of hives, angry red
pustules smothering me like a shell or a second layer of skin. My Mom stayed home
to take care of me and, to help me pass the time, sat me down in front of the family
laptop, where I logged in to my latest fourth-grade obsession: the LEGO website’s
Lord of the Rings forum.

Imagine your typical image-sharing social media site, then remove any sort of algo-
rithm, friends system, or personalized feed. That gets you the LEGO Lord of the
Rings image-sharing service, where posts are sorted only by recency. On this partic-
ular day, I was a frequent poster. While some users uploaded genuinely impressive or
inventive creations, I took my handful of Middle Earth sets and made silly, probably
often bewildering posts. What I lacked in resources or know-how, I made up for with
sheer determination and an oblivious absence of quality control.

wee | -eo=- f osu
Much of my childhood was built on LEGOs, as my brother and I spent hours
crafting complex worlds and competing with our fictional LEGO sports teams. At
a certain point in elementary school, I seem to have decided that these adventures
had to be shared with the world. Enter Webnode, a simple website builder system,
and my dad, generously patient. LEGOWORLDNEYWS was swiftly established, and
my brother and I had our own blog. What we lacked in resources or know-how, we
made up for with sheer determination and an oblivious absence of quality control.
We wrote a maelstrom of clipped, enthusiastic news articles, updated the site for a
few weeks, and either got bored or forgot about it. But before this latest fad passed, I
presented the site to my fourth-grade class. They were impressed, and we all laughed
together at some of the very silly soccer player names.

6

NONFICTION

wear [noe re
My parents were exceedingly kind in encouraging my peculiar childhood interests,
unafraid of introducing me to technology as a way to support my creativity. Through-
out my first few years of elementary school, my dad allowed me to type away on the
family computer, a big white box in the basement office, and I would write away
to my heart’s content, expounding upon the detailed histories of various fictional
universes, some LEGO, some faux-flesh and would-be-bone. I eventually stopped
this habit, and though I cannot say for certain why, it may have had something to do
with the time that, out of sheer childhood clumsiness, I printed over a hundred cop-
ies of some nonsensical faux-historical document, spoiling our ink and paper supplies
and earning a lengthy ban from the office.

ver [ noe one
For as much time as I spent in such online spaces, I did not find community through
them. I am glad, frankly—I don’t wish to fearmonger, but unmoderated internet
spaces simply do not seem an ideal ground for a very young, learning child. Could
I have joined a LEGO club or a youth photography group, and expanded my cre-
ativity while connecting with others? It’s hard to say. Perhaps not. My parents were
very busy. I was very introverted. We lived in a city where community could be hard
to come by. These internet spaces filled gaps where, in an ideal world, more physical
third spaces might have been. They helped pass the time. And eventually, time passed
them by.

wer | ne--- ae
That old box computer is long, long, gone, and the countless Word documents
sprawled upon it are similarly lost. The true history of the fictional nation of Mabal
is, I fear, a guest of the past alone, cut off from the present.

The LEGO Lord of the Rings site vanished long ago, as all LEGO sites do once their
theme is discontinued. I could not even find it on the invaluable Wayback Machine;
if it persists in some form, it is truly buried. Hundreds of my posts, comments, and
absurd ideas vanished, never to be recovered. What does it mean to have spent so
much time in such ephemeral places, for so many of my childhood haunts to be little
more than strings of code? And does it matter, to have lost so many creations—web-
sites, stories, comics, videos, animations, and more—or was it the joy of creating that
mattered more?

ree oes ee
LEGOWORLDNEYWS persists, you'll be glad to hear, though I am unsure for how
much longer. One cannot help but feel that Webnode will eventually stop supporting

=
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NONFICTION

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such old sites. One day, of course, Webnode itself will shut down or be absorbed into
some other web-hosting service. I will venture to the link from my bookmark tab,
and on the site, these words appear:

this domain is no longer in use

Nothing beside remains. Yet round the decay of this colossal wreck, perhaps the spirit
of what is gone lives on, in every word I write and world I craft; those old and eager

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HOME.OBJ

EVAN SCHWARZ

In his free time, he would model and render everything he could remember from
his childhood home. Toys, the kitchen table, the living room rug, and the family dog
were all molded out of polygons and vertices until every conceivable item existed in
three-dimensional digital space. He used photos found in old boxes and on his phone
to piece by piece together his house. He still struggled with proportions—and even
when using a reference, he found it difficult not to exaggerate. His father’s nose was
too big, his sister’s limbs too long, his mom’s hair too short, his grandfather too fat
for the chair he was placed in and his shirt constantly clipped through the armrests.
Light never fell right on their faces, so he placed lights like miniature suns in the
corners of every room. But he tried to put it all there.

Taking those old photos of his grandfathers, the people who could no longer
visit, He spent months recreating their shirts, watches, and suspenders. Socks were
mismatched and he chose which pants looked better with which shirt. He tried his
best. His mother, who was never photographed from the left on account of a mole,
was hardest to complete. So, he guessed at how the mole used to curl and bunch up
when she smiled; because, despite it all, every photo he had of his mother was those
of her smiling.

His father was different. He never smiled. It was difficult to remember when he
did. Laughter was often sporadic, inconsistent, and at times ill-placed like he was
laughing at a joke only he heard. His father was hard to place, too. Unlike his moth-
er, who could easily be put in the living room with her hooks and needles and balls of
yarn, his father could be placed anywhere—though none of them felt right. He could
be behind the grill, or in the kitchen, or behind his desk, or asleep on the couch.
Instead, he—the artist—placed his father running up the stairs. Behind his father, he
rendered himself as a small boy chasing him. So, on the stairs, a memory between a
father and son exists forever.

‘The whole house was beginning to be anachronistic. He had no clear timeline of
his own childhood to pull from. The color of his bedroom walls was from when he
was in high school, but all the army men and Lego sets from elementary school were
on the floor. The bathroom remained how it was before it was remodeled, with red
walls and incandescent light bulbs. The kitchen kept its marble countertop island,
which was removed to open space for the living room. ‘The living room couch was

FICTION

from when his parents first moved in before he was even born. It was a gift from his
grandparents, and it only lasted three years before a new puppy tore it to shreds. So,
he placed that puppy, now old, onto the couch, never destroyed. And then there was
the basement, overflowing and stuffed with every poorly rendered item from memo-
ry: ceramic pots, homecoming flowers, Christmas wrapping paper, game controllers,
and every chair and table that was once thrown out, now born again in this digital
basement.

In spite of all his work, he didn’t stop creating new things and adding more peo-
ple to his home. He modeled his mother again, but younger, sitting at the table with
her father, both in the throws of laughter. Five different versions of his sister, each
increasing in age, were placed in a crib, at the dining table on her mother’s lap, in her
teal-walled bedroom, in the bathroom, and then, finally, in her car, backing out of
the driveway.

His father was still running up the stairs; he was also older and in the attic, sort-
ing through boxes to give away.In the end, he put in his grandparents, his neighbors,
childhood friends he hadn't talked to in years, and any person he could remember or
name, or had a picture of.

The diffused walls of this small home were filled with the innumerable lives of all
the people who had come and gone, with all their long distant limbs and pocket suns
shining down on them. He tried to put it all there, and in the end, he created a living
home for all those who passed by.

=
=)
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Vee Wing
digital art

POETRY POETRY

MA PUSHED ICARUS When

the rain and

NICO SACCO lightning are clear,
I sit on the clouds and
Unearthed from Incan soils, dream
your wings in V-formation of your empanadas.
You & your brothers
I dreamed

you must have flown
far from your homeland.

Your dolls,

lying stagnant on waves.
‘The weight of your goodbyes-
too heavy
a load to fly with.
Your children now a
burden in
the atmosphere-
must be laid
in the cumulonimbus

clouds. Thunder

Sinking into our skulls -
I know now
how heavy
we too
must have been.
Righteously, you spoke like
the sun. Flying so high, trying

to get closer to God.

But did letting us fall

ooo oSe So

make it easier?

iat
—
N
é)
SN
—
—
SS)

POETRY

o-oo0o---a

FRESH DEITY

GAVIA BOYDEN

my god says,
let animals bloat forever
or at least be pink and shiny

no more arcades,
their sacrilege stinks like smoke.
and add more wolves everywhere.

mixing fabrics, fine, but wearing them
not so much. show me those parts.

these hands shaped that soft shame on purpose.

nothing cannot burn. i
considered dragons. but
instead, declare one political party TRUTH.

parrots are mute now,
that was a mistake, and i’m sorry.

pirates, you can have bionic limbs

as consolation.

FICTION

LOVERBOY

AMAYA AHMED

Youre fifteen when you meet a boy.

Your avatar spawns somewhere at the edge of a lake. The water is a perfect blue.
Almost too perfect, like a corporate color. The color is comforting, like Red 40 and
plastic nacho cheese. The boy is so pretty. His hair is dark and falls right into his
eyes. You wonder for a moment if he’s one of those in-game characters, someone
youll never know. You want to reach out and touch him but you're afraid your hand
will phase right through.

He’s swimming like it isn’t fifty degrees outside. The lights above shine brightly
on his dark hair. He looks like an angel from afar. A virtual angel.

You catch his avatar staring at you. His eyes are sharp like shrapnel. You inch
closer to the water as if you'll short-circuit, but you know this is only temporary. The
sky is marble and spotless, #07 1DF2 pixels against the end of the world.

You dip your toes into the icy cold water and sparks shoot up your spine. You feel
blue in your fingertips and blue in your veins. You stare at him through icicle eyelids
and you might see blue eyes staring back at you.

His hair glistens like a thousand diamonds when he rises from the water. Some-
one coded this place well and stirred powdered lapis lazuli into the lake. Your hands
are chalky and blue like a merman’s skin. He reaches for your hand and you let him
take it without wasting a frame.

‘The world above the water is a little grey and blurry like a foggy day. It’s always
safer in a place like this.

His skin is warm and cold against yours and you feel yourself slipping and slip-
ping. You want to ask him for a kiss but you don't—youre afraid of cutting your lip
on his ivory canines. He pulls you deeper and deeper and you're not underwater or
on land but something else. You think you have something real here and there’s no
time to log off.

You don’t remember when you started walking down this hallway. The walls are
#818C92. You've only seen that color twice—the steel of your fifth-grade water bot-
tle and the greying skin of your late grandmother.

—
—
al

FICTION

‘This is the first time he’s left you alone. You only met him a month/a day ago,
but you think you have something special. Your hands glitch through the walls and
remind you everything exists here.

You're supposed to be looking for him. You never stop.

He’s probably behind one of these doors, but they all look the same. The world
looks hazier with every step you take. Everything looks like a body in a funhouse mir-
ror. The size of the download weighs heavy on your shoulders. Your feet are cracked
porcelain but they’re pixels. Your heart isn’t virtual but it’s bendy like a slap bracelet.
You keep looking and looking but WASD can only do so much.

You're not barefoot this time, but the tile floor is still white and cold on your
skin. The lights above are just ice caps. The light won't cook you but it won't let you
freeze.

Soft glass crunches below your feet. You wince because you can't risk starting over
and making a new avatar and losing your progress.

You finally see him at the end of the hallway. He’s rendered perfectly. He looks
the same as he did on the day you met. He didn’t leave you alone on purpose—some-
times you render at the wrong place at the wrong time.

His pretty brown eyes always get round when he sees you. They twinkle like sheer
white stained glass. He tastes like the sun and shines like the moon, lips curled into a
smile when you reach him.

You're always alone with him or youre just alone. Running through cyberspace
with him is like playing a new game in story mode. One of you will cut and run, but
you wonder who'll hold out longer.

He reaches for your hand and you dont take it because you know you'll pass right
through him. You walk alongside him instead. You don’t talk. You want to ask him if
his avatar has always looked this way. How many other people has he met?

He takes a left without telling you. You follow him because it’s getting late and
youre running out of time. You're cold and he isn’t, so you rely on the city’s white
lights to keep you warm.

The mall is where the water reaches your knees. You can still see the floor beneath
you, but you don’ want to. Everything is here and it could have been.

Everything is underwater and you can't see very far ahead of you. He’s supposed
to be your eyes but he’s nowhere to be found.

FICTION

You see your reflection in the blue water around you. You wonder what he sees in
you. Youre strong and tall and you have eyes and lips like his. Sometimes he counts
the moles on your face.

You see him walking in front of you. It feels like a deliberate choice. He rides the
escalator but he’s going down and youre going up. You wait for him to come back
but it takes a while.

‘The water soaks into your skin and makes you feel like a reptile. In another life
youd be drowning with your throat flooded with salt and tears. In this one, you
can only see blue pixels. You struggle to catch up to him because the water weighs
you down. Maybe it’s the weight of the file or your own loneliness, but it’s hard to
breathe. The sharp edges of the escalator cut your feet like your tongue on his teeth.

‘The escalator keeps going up and up and you lose track of how long it’s been.
They're like stairs to heaven. Trees grow in the middle of the hallway and dirt collects
under your fingernails. If he were here to kiss you, this whole thing would feel like
hydrotherapy.

You see blue lights and they’re calling you back home. They’re white and cold but
the black plastic banister is a little warm. The walls are ivory and curved upwards like
an aquarium. He’s in your fishbowl and he might keep you a little longer.

You finally catch him in the food court. He’s so, so pretty. When he smiles you
can see all of his ivory teeth. The rest of him smiles, too, and he tilts his head like a
puppy. He reaches for your hand, but you step aside before he passes through you.

He looks small next to you, but you feel small next to him. You look down at
him and remember youre both boys but he’s a god.

You float through cyberspace with him by your side. He stops you whenever he
sees something he likes. The server is accented with coral pink, a color that should
make you think of antacid tablets but all you can picture is the pink of his lips. You
remember that thing he does where he smiles with his whole face.

His hand is beside yours and all you can notice are his pretty pink painted knuck-
les. He looks like a doll.

You end up in a cafe with corporate blue tiles and no designs on the floor. People
used to play dress-up games on a server like this. You can still see the faded dresses
and pointy shoes. You think he would look good in a pair of blue/white acid-washed
jeans.

You offer to buy him something, but all he wants is a plastic pouch full of your
crystal tears. You finally ask him what they taste like and he says nothing. You assume
they taste salty. He must really love you if they are.

‘There are stars in your throat when he leans over and whispers in your year. You
want to be pretty for him too, but you've long since run out of tokens to customize

a
—
N

FICTION

your avatar. You're a little pale, but he doesn’t seem to mind. ‘The sun has scattered
pretty shapes across his tan skin and he’s perfect.

He grabs your hand and you let him pull you down under and under. You can’t
drown because he’s the only thing that really exists.

He cuts his index finger on your jaw and you immediately want to apologize, but
he smiles in a way that puts you back together.

You tell him he’s pretty but he already knows. He has to.

You're married to him now.

You live in a perfect house in the middle of a perfect field. There’s nothing to be
seen for miles and you like it that way.

Your husband goes off to work every morning and you do the same. You don't
know where you go or where he goes, but you always come back home.

You want to hold onto him with a white-knuckle grip, but you have to let him
go. You busy yourself with planting lemon groves and buying clothes that never seem
to fit you. The pants always glitch through your bones and the shirts always slip off
your shoulder.

This is the kind of place where time never moves faster than it exists. Every day is
supposed to be a new beginning, but you're bored. This is not the kind of game that
keeps you guessing. This is the kind of place that reminds you of how alone you are.

‘The sky is so corporate blue and endless, and the grass is #5 D6F1E and always
freshly mowed. You should be happy. You finally have a nice house and a husband
who loves you. But the house feels empty and you can't help but want something
more.

One day you cross paths with him and your hands touch. You feel yourself slip-
ping and slipping and suddenly life feels a lot more like Pac-Man. His touch sends
sparks right up your spine and deep down you know you've always been his.

Something changes when he comes home one night. Youre in slow mode, watch-
ing nothing. You immediately want to trace the perfect slope of his nose and run
your hands through his black hair. He looks at you and smiles sweetly, with pink lips
and blinding teeth.

He reaches for your hand and you let him take it without a second thought.

Youre frozen in his gaze, glitching and lagging at two frames per second. He’s perfect.

You're connected to him in a strange sort of way. His veins are wires and he

FICTION

short-circuits when your #A52216 blood touches his skin. When he kisses you, you
can't help but spark, flash, and ignite.
He’s a boyeater and a mankiller. You were made to admire his pretty face.

He left you here a long time ago. You haven't even started climbing the steps in front
of you. You look at the shining glass beneath you and wonder if this is what heaven
looks like. Heaven is a staircase with shiny glass steps and corporate blue railings.
He’s your very own angel that floats and floats high above you.

‘The Al-generated staircase leads to nowhere and you know it. It has those overly
smooth visuals but jagged edges. But you still keep walking until your feet hurt. You
don’t understand that it’s useless to chase until your bones ache and the glass eventu-
ally cracks beneath you. You have that kind of wide-eyed pretty optimism that a boy
could only have for another boy.

It’s really easy to need him, which is why you take what he gives you. That’s why
you keep walking and walking. This place is a little strange. The air is thin and your
skin feels sharp. But youd do anything for him.

Dolphins swim past you and the water makes you glitch. Tall checkered buildings
tower above you and make you feel small. The floor below begins to crumble like
sugar crystals in cherry red soda.

You walk for what feels like eons. Until just thinking about sunlight feels like
poison. You probably only walked for ten minutes, but time pulls at your skin and
stretches it thin. Everything is blue.

Like an opening screen after a shutdown, he appears in front of you, a silent
supernova. He looks at you and sees all that you are. All that you aren't and all that
you want to be. He reaches for your hand and you give him everything. He kisses you
softly and gently. When you pull apart, you see Jupiter and Saturn in his irises. He
tilts his head, smiles, and looks like a cartoon puppy.

You follow him because you're a boy wearing corporate blue contact lenses. You
decide that heaven is a staircase and you'll keep climbing.

You're not outside or inside.
You see tall buildings in the distance. They're corporate blue cold and laser bright.
He’s probably walking through the ultramarine tunnel, maybe looking for you. You'll

a
—
\o

FICTION

oo0o0o-+---a

stand here until he spots you and waves at you.

People should be watching you, but they’re nowhere to be found. That's how it
always ends with him. You love the way it’s the two of you, or just you.

You stand in front of the tallest building. It’s plastic and waxy. There are hundreds
of floors and looking up at them makes your fox eyes hurt.

A snowflake lands on your tongue and it melts. It’s just one. It could have landed
on anyone's tongue, but it landed on yours because this is an ideal simulation. You
expect to see dark hair in one of the windows, so you wait. The building is ivory
white and it looks a little cold. Some rooms are lit, but the others are dark like a dead
phone. He should be beside you, resting his hand on your shoulder with corporate
blue blood flowing through his veins.

You think you see him pass through one of the many doors. You miss him and
you miss him and you miss him.

You stand in place and breathe slowly, at two frames per second. It’s definitely a
connection issue.

You walk ten steps to the left and now everything is corporate blue again. Every
door is illuminated by a cloud of crushed lapis lazuli. Things are dotty and you won-
der if he’s behind one of those doors instead.

Maybe he lives on your street or maybe in another country. Every closed door
makes you wonder if he even wants to be found.

‘The ice crunches under your bare feet and it’s perfect blue water on your skin.
‘This world is a refrigerator. You're tired of searching. Your feet ache but you can’t just
stop looking. You find him in the pool. It’s like the first day you met him. He looks
the same, with black hair and with water pearls. He has the prettiest ivory smile. Tu-
lip pink paints his lips and cheeks, and when he calls your name you hear a little lisp.

Somehow, there are no footprints in the snow. There’s a white blanket over the
poolside chairs and the palm-evergreen trees and every roof. The cold metal bars are
gone because he wants you to jump in with both feet.

He stares at you with starry eyes and you jump without a second thought. You
glitch and short-circuit but it’s all worth it to see him smile.

There’s light coming from the bottom of the pool. The water is ice cold but you
burn and burn for him. His beauty is once in a lifetime.

You're left to wonder if it’s your fault.

FICTION

You're in an empty room with great crystal pillars and water that reaches your
ankles. His hand left yours a long time ago and you can‘ stop glitching.

You swim closer to the endless floor. This world is made of spare parts like your
heart. The colors are all off and the same interpolated song keeps playing on a loop.
He appears in front of you like a mirage. Your heart twists and turns, and slows and
reverbs. Your thoughts are all chopped and screwed.

You stumble over your words like an ill-programmed NPC. There’s supposed to
be something wrong with you and youre supposed to feel bad but you don't. After
all, you're not the one who tossed your love into a box in the corner. You're not the
one who treats him like another mirage in a pair of thick goggles.

You understand he might not be real. After all, you only see him when your eyes
are heavy and you get that cold ache in your chest. You're playing a game of interdi-
mensional chess/checkers with a boy who's written into your code and whose name is
carved into your bones.

You know it’s the end when he reaches out to you with a faraway look in his eyes.
He apologizes with his eyes but not his mouth. His words are anything but a gentle
snowfall. bleaumort.com is the server he dedicates to you. It could be his first name
or last name or nothing at all. Your heart would probably beat his full name if you
knew it. But it’s hard being five steps behind him. It’s hard to take a dive when you
know he’s already on the other side of the ocean.

He kisses you for the last time and you're connected through fiber-optic cables.
You see red and green and pink and every color in between. You cut your tongue on
his ivory teeth. Then he disappears, logs off, and fades away. He slips through your
fingers like that night at the lake. It feels just as icy cold and corporate blue. It feels
like he ripped your heart out of your chest and left you to sew it back in yourself.

You look forward to seeing him when you dream. For now, youre just virtual
angels gliding through cyberspace, and he’s nothing but your loverboy.

=
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—

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INSIDE THE
-WOWORLD OF
|. VIRTUAL
COMPANIIONS

CRATE
YOURR OWN
DIGITAL
DARLING/11!

INSIDE THE MIND OF ERIC AEGIR

BLAIR KELLY

When I was 14 I had a crush on a girl on Discord. The joke goes that there are no
straight cis women on that website—no wonder | identified her. I told her I loved her
and she ghosted me.

When I was 17 I grew my hair out and two boys in my class assaulted me because
they said I looked gay. All three of us were suspended for fighting in school.

When I was 19 I cut my hair short and pitched my tech startup to the investment
board of a bank. The idea was to make a helmet ringed with magnets that could gen-
tly tug at the electrical signals in the user’s brain and trick them into experiencing any
qualia possible. I dumbed it down enough for the board to understand—my pitch
was greenlit and I received the funding to open Psychic Systems.

At 22 my hair was an oily, twisted mess that frequently got tangled in my key-
board. I kept a pair of safety scissors on my desk to quickly snip off the ends of
tangled strands rather than waste time untangling them. My unrelenting dedication
to work eventually paid off—that was the year I put together the first Psychic System
prototype.

The other staff of my company and a few paramedics gathered with me for the
trial run. I donned the prototype—which came out to resemble a bulky VR head-
set—reclined on the sofa in the breakroom, and gave the thumbs up to the developer
at the PC. A soft whirring drowned out the nervous silence of the room: magnets
bouncing around the helmet interior like electrons orbiting a uranium nucleus.

Comparing my first experience to a dream isn’t doing it justice. I wasn’t asleep,

I was somewhere else entirely. Were my real eyelids even closed? I couldn’t feel them
anymore. The Psychic System hijacked my senses, replacing the qualia of reclining
on a sofa with the qualia of a dark, empty void with an invisible floor, all we were
comfortable rendering at the time.

The world around me disappears when I fixate on my work, but this was the first
time I'd ever been truly lost in it.

The trial run was a success and we kicked development into overdrive. Investor
money poured in as everyone tried to claw a piece of the market we were about to
dominate. The Psychic System held endless potential in the medical, tech, and science
fields, but the pressures of capitalism steered us in the direction of profits. We created
a video game.

123

FICTION

It took two years of development, but the result was worth it: an open-world
fighting-fantasy MMO called RELo. Players with Psychic Systems could log in and
explore a real-to-life world full of monsters, dungeons, and generative NPCs. To
make the game fun for everyone who isn’t a professional athlete, I spent months
working out how to remove inconvenient attributes of the human body such as
exhaustion and pain and replaced them with the strength to casually lift the heavy
equipment required for a fantasy adventure. Hundreds of other programmers created
algorithms to generate qualia to be experienced by the players, everything from the
raspy voice of a vampire to the sting of a gargantuan scorpion’s venom. Thanks to my
ingenious tech, all that would be available to consumers for the price of a PS5 Pro.

As I mastered the art of manipulating the qualia experienced by the virtual body,
my back-burner project rapidly shifted from a distant fantasy to something I pursued
relentlessly after hours each night. The others assumed I was just that dedicated to
our work, but behind two passwords and three levels of encryption, there was a folder
on my PC with something I couldn’t show them. On some quiet weekend nights
when the Psychic Systems office was empty of even custodians, I would fire up the
program in that folder, don a Psychic System headset, and log into the latest build
of RELo. Everything was exactly as we left it, the only exception being myself—my
avatar.

Her username is Eventide. Forsaking the admin ID, she exists as a regular player
that will one day mingle with others. Her model was handcrafted by me, her features
feminized and beautified versions of my own, her digital nerves programmed to graft
onto mine so that when I log in, I become Eventide. I become a woman.

I’ve known I’m transgender for a long time. I knew when I fell in love with a
trans girl on Discord. I knew when I was almost killed in high school for ‘acting like
a queer — the words of my principal. I knew when I cut my hair to appear present-
able for the investment board and screamed myself to sleep for three nights in a row
after securing the funding. But it’s those nights when I take on her form that I know
how I’m meant to live.

Tonight isn't one of those nights. I’m the only one left in the office, but there’s
too much going on tomorrow. I shut off my PC and lean back in my chair to stare at
the Matrix 5 poster I have plastered on the ceiling of my corner office. It’s theorized
that upon entering the Matrix, there’s no pill you could take that will make you cer-
tain you've escaped—there’s always the possibility that another curtain camouflaged
as the real world is still pulled over your eyes.

‘This theory is false. I prove it false every time I log off and find myself trapped in
this disgusting male body. It’s a qualia no artificial system could ever replicate.

FICTION

I grab my things, hit the lights, and lock my office before heading to the ele-
vators. The parking garage is underneath the building, but I hit the button for the
ground floor and walk out through the lobby. Home—the neglected apartment that
serves as my place to sleep and shower and nothing else—isn’t far, and I need some
fresh air. There was a time when I'd rush home from work to change into femme
clothes, but these days I usually sleep in the office. Crossdressing is now a miserable
reminder that I can’t transition.

I used to believe I would come out at some point, but it was a fantasy in high
school and impossible now. Bank executives are breathing down my neck 24 hours a
day. When I make a public appearance, it’s their marketing departments that control
exactly what I say and do, like I’m a piece on their chess board. They want money,
and my mere existence will inevitably trigger a conservative consumer backlash, an
opportunity fear-mongering politicians will seize to rile their base up against Psychic
Systems and eventually call for regulation if not an outright ban on the ‘woke’ tech-
nology I created. That's not money. That’s the opposite of money.

It’s pointless anyway. Those same marketing people will spend hours Franken-
steining me into a semi-attractive tech bro just for a TV appearance to promote the
Psychic System. To pass as a woman, it would take even more effort and the result
would be even less authentic. I could start HRT, and I could spend my fortune on
every gender-affirming surgery imaginable, but I’m not ignorant. I know there’s only
so much that can be done for someone as monstrous as me and I know how I'll be
treated if I step out of the closet. Pretending the trans liberation movement is getting
anywhere is even more ignorant. It’s pointless to try fixing this backward, savage place
we call the modern world.

I pause my walk home in the middle of a dark, desolate intersection and stare
into the starless, light-polluted sky. That’s right—I don’t need this world. I built my
own, and I plan on staying there as long as possible.

The moments I’m Eventide are the only moments worth living. Shutting myself
in to play my video games for 19 hours a day isn’t a solution—it would only make
the moments I emerge from my bliss all the more cruel. What I need is to put on a
Psychic System and fall into a coma. They won't allow it—they need me awake, alert,
and promoting their product. That’s why I’m taking matters into my own hands.

My plan, the culmination of my back-burner project, has been coming togeth-
er for months now. The folder on my PC has expanded to a few dozen terabytes in
size and has 13 more levels of security. It’s not that ’'m dead if they find it—we'll all
be dead. The media will explode over a transgender conspiracy, tossing fuel on the
culture war wildfire. Trans lives will be ruined, people will die—people I don’t plan
on murdering myself.

a
No
oN

Ae
KX
—
No
al

FICTION

o-—-<—-—-]{—-—+-+—-—0

Yes, I said murder. Magnets are powerful devices. They can precisely pluck elec-
trical signals like guitar strings or rupture their target medium with violent surges in
power — it all depends on who is writing the code controlling them. It’s my brain
against theirs.

Who are ‘they’? Whoever is excited enough to log into RELo on the launch day.
In other words, my hostages. The feds and bank executives won't risk messing with
my world if there’s a gun to the head of a thousand players trapped inside it, and they
wont risk messing with their only hope of freeing them if there’s a gun to his head
too. If they try to hack their way in and free the players themselves, they'll hit a brick
wall against my encryption, which will double as a shield to keep them from peek-
ing inside and seeing me living as Eventide. This disaster won't be pinned on trans
people, just a sociopathic tech bro who'll somehow get more sympathy than a trans
woman would. To keep them from pulling the plug on the entire operation, I'll in-
clude a warning in the press release I'll publish on the night of the launch stating that
attempting to shut off the servers will result in the simultaneous execution of every
single hostage. ‘The feds can torture and maim me all I want for my crimes—Eventide
wont feel any of it. She’s going to be a victim of Eric Aegir like the rest of them.

Yes, I said victim. Memories are just electrical signals in the brain and I’m al-
ready an expert in creating sensations I’ve never experienced. Eventide's life, formed
from shattered memories of my own, exists in my private folder. When RELo finally
launches, I won't just exist in her body—I'll become her. Her experiences, personality,
and dreams will fuse with mine. I'll get to live as a cis woman — every trans woman's
dream.

‘The slamming of a car door and the incidental body slam of the woman who
parked it rips me out of my mind. “I’m sorry, so sorry!” she apologizes immediately,
offering me a frantic wave before resuming her sprint into the arms of a man wait-
ing for her at the doors of an apartment building. All I can do is stare as they share
a long, passionate kiss. “Miss me?” the woman asks through a grin when she finally
breaks away.

“Chloe...why is that guy staring at us?” I catch her boyfriend muttering suspi-
ciously.

Chloe glances back at me, shrugs, and continues to ignore me. “It’s probably ‘cuz
Pm beautiful.” She offers him her hand. “Shall we?”

As he accepts her hand to take her inside, she uses her other to give me the finger.
I shake myself out of my daze and storm away, my footsteps barely drowning out the
pounding inside my chest.

I double back before reaching the end of the block, partially to catch a glimpse

FICTION

of the couple again through the lobby windows (I don’t) and partially because I can’t
go home. Not tonight. I retrace my steps back to the Psychic Systems office building,
enter the way I came in, and storm up the steps to my floor rather than wait for the
elevator. My office is the same mess I left it twenty minutes ago. My Psychic System
is gathering dust on my desk.

I plop in my chair, take a few deep breaths, and then slam my forehead into my
desk as hard as I can and scream.

“She's fucking trans...!” I grab at my face like a gritty reboot of The Scream
painting, pressing hard enough to detect the violent movement of my pulse. That
woman I bumped into, Chloe, is transgender. It’s obvious. Her face is manish, her
voice is fake, she’s taller than her boyfriend. ..but it’s been years since P've met some-
one so full of joy. How is that possible?

Is it possible?

I open my desk drawer, pluck a small vial from its place next to a pair of safety
scissors, and study the label. Estradiol Valerate. How I procured it is irrelevant. It
could change me, make me...like that woman. I have privilege: a skinny body type,
long hair, and the money for surgery. I could threaten the bank executives with a
DDoS attack on the Psychic System servers if they try to interfere. I could publicly
come out and exchange my artificial tech bro persona for the admiration of people
like Chloe. I could meet her, apologize for staring, and thank her for...for what?

I drop the vial, slide the drawer shut, and pass out on my keyboard. It’s point-
less—Chloe is a hideous woman. Eventide is cis and beautiful. She’s who I’ve been
waiting to be. I won't have to wait much longer.

Tomorrow is the launch day of RELo.

Morning light leaks through my office window to rouse me from my dozing.
There’s a small tug when I groggily lean up from my keyboard — my hair is tangled
in the keys again. Sighing to myself, I patiently begin to untangle it as an intern
brings me a cup of coffee.

‘The day drags on. There are handshakes, high-fives, and congratulatory slaps on
the back—I’m numb to it all. Every few seconds my eyes dart to the nearest clock to
check how long it is until RELo launches.

When 5:00 PM finally rolls around, I excuse myself to my office, lock the door
behind me, and log into my private folder one last time. Day one players have already
filled up dozens of servers—I choose one at random and activate my trap with a click
of my mouse. The emergency press release warning of my atrocity is sent out to every
major news organization. All that’s left is for me to don the machine that could end

—— SS ee eK HK

FICTION

oooccnoen

up frying my brain and log in.

‘The first thing I notice is the feeling of weightlessness. My drab office is replaced
with a void empty of everything but a small floating panel with options, the Psychic
System equivalent of a menu screen. I’m not Eventide—not yet. There’s one last piece
of business I need to take care of as Eric Aegir.

I log into the server with my admin account and spawn in the center of the colos-
seum in the beginning town. Rows upon rows of seats tower over the sand gladiator
arena like tidal waves about to crash into me. It’s stunning, but the awe of our digital
constructions has long since been lost to me. Perhaps Eventide will find it impressive.

A thousand players have logged onto this server. It won't be long before they re-
alize they can’t log off. I summon the common prompt with a thought and paste in a
prewritten script—one that will teleport every single player in the game to this arena.

The colosseum fills in a blink of an eye and a thousand confused players pause
whatever they're doing to stare at the tech bro with a ponytail, ear-mounted mi-
crophone, and lab coat in the center of the arena. Allowing the familiar anxiety of
performance to wash over me, I spread my arms and exclaim, “Ladies and gentlemen,
my name is Eric Aegir, and welcome to RELo!”

‘The crowd, recognizing me as the famed developer of the game, goes ballistic, but
I continue calmly. “I’ve gathered you all here on the launch of my game to offer you a
very special challenge—beat RELo!”

Mote excited cheers from an audience dominated by young white men with the
spare cash for expensive equipment—this is going to be cathartic. “Some of you may
have noticed there is no longer a way to log out of RELo,” I announce. “I’ve removed
that feature. Consider yourself...my guests.”

The sounds of the colosseum become a mish-mash of applause and confused
whispers. “If anyone tries to remove your Psychic System headset to log you out,” I
call out, “well...magnets are powerful devices. A single surge of power from them will
damage your brain. .. fatally.”

Dead silence.

“Don't worry, those around you have been warned!” | explain to the thousand
pairs of eyes watching me anxiously. “You're safe. But this challenge wouldn’t mean
anything without stakes, so I’ve programmed your Psychic Systems to...” I hesitate
dramatically. The final piece of my plan—without proof of my intent, eventually
someone will grow impatient and accidentally murder one of my hostages. There’s a
decent chance I'll be the one they call my bluff on. Everyone watching this disaster
from the outside needs to know I mean business. “...to execute you if your hit points
reach zero. If you die in the game—”

FICTION

“Don’t say it,” someone directly behind me curses, startling me and throwing
me off my game.

“you die in...real...life.” My projected voice falls toa mumble as I turn around
to face the player who snuck up on me.

Gods, no. It’s her.

My stage fright paradoxically worsens even as the players in the colosseum be-
come the last thing on my mind, it feels like I've been stripped naked by the Romans
and thrown to the lions. “What are you doing?!” I hiss at the woman who ran into
me last night.

It takes Chloe a moment to recover from her shock. “I...was...looking for my
friend,” she manages in a shaky voice. The joy from yesterday is gone. “We got sepa-
rated.”

Friend. Friend? Does she mean her boyfriend from last night? Someone she just
met after logging in? Someone she was trying to log in with who she now wont ever
see again?

Is her friend another trans person?

“... Sorry.” The fake apology slips out of my mouth reflexively, a verbal tic I devel-
oped to excuse my existence as efficiently as possible. It doesn’t mean I don’t mean it.

You could stop, a whisper in my head offers—Eventide’s whisper. She took her own
path, built her own life, and found her own happiness. You could do the same.

...Or I could disappear, become Eventide now, and never have to think of this
again.

Chloe’s final expression before I teleport away is one of terror. Does she know? In
a moment it won't even matter...

Friend.

That word is the last to cross Eric Aegir’s mind, and I’m left wondering why ’m
wondering if that woman and I will be friends.

Sooo oo o—

—
N
6

POETRY

o-oo o8o oo

THIS BODY OF MINE

LILA COVAL

the diner my grandpa used to take me to only exists

in foggy half-dream sequences and the aftertaste of cheap donuts.

I remember the chairs, or maybe just the way the worn-out vinyl would stick
to the back of my thighs in the summer

when the overworked fan above us didn’t stand a chance against the always
open-closing door and the cigarette smoke that leaked through the cracks in
the paint-flecked windows.

the patrons were loud and my grandpa knew them all, every one of them with
their beer guts and their toothpicks, and my city-kid hand

would swim in their old country sun-crispened calluses.

my grandpa would laugh with them, and I would

swing my feet back and forth on my sticky leather chair until

the woman behind the bar slipped the bill onto the table with a wink.

I tried a donut with chocolate frosting once,

but I don’t remember the last time we went or when we stopped going or if it

happened at all.

jo

ea

studying English at the University of Min-
nesota. She has been writing fiction novels
since middle school and hopes to go have
her own stories published after graduating.
ones, and plans to attend graduate and law
school.

ly, aspiring to write her own screenplay.
She has two poem publications, hoping

ing in film production, she writes creative-
for more as she continues to write.

baking and listening to music in her spare
Cecelia Lausten, a senior at the Univer-
sity of Minnesota, majors in English and
minors in creative writing. Passionate
about writing and reading, she dreams of
she works in EMS, enjoys time with loved
Danielle Gallus is an upcoming junior at
the University of Minnesota, Twin Cities,
studying English and studies in cinema
and media culture. With dreams of work-

Cass Bryant is a third-year student at the
time.

collage, watch/make films, direct/perform
in theater/long-form improv (OPEN-
STAGE, Friends from College), and play
woman currently in her junior year of
University of Minnesota, Twin Cities,
She writes poetry and fiction and enjoys

Blair Kelly is a queer and transgender
studying English and cultural studies.

work in the editing and design of novels, publishing a trilogy. Outside of writing,

explores themes of cultural identity and games with friends.

queer love. Amaya is currently a fresh-
cultural studies & comparative literature

(CSCL) and philosophy at the Univer-
English in pursuit of the Certificate of

Editing and Publishing. She hopes to
Minneapolis College of Art and Design,
and can be found hiding zines with
hopeful messages around the school.
Bella Maldonado (she/her) is a senior
SCMC major at the University of Min-
nesota. In her spare time, she likes to

iced coffee, her dogs, and volunteering
Memphis, TN. Currently a student at

the University of Minnesota studying
in her community.

etry can be found in zines around Twin
Avery Comes (she/her) is a freshman at
specifically fiction. She loves reading,
Banner Beard is a comic artist from

and playing cribbage. More of their po-
Cities bookstores.

man at the University of Minnesota,
majoring in history with a minor in
sity of Minnesota. In their spare time,
they enjoy creating/supporting Twin
Cities theater, spending time outdoors,

Bangladeshi immigrants, her work often
Ava Jax (any/all) is a senior studying

Amaya Ahmed (she/her) is a Minneap-
olis-based writer. The daughter of two

creative writing.

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DJ Scheele (he/him) is a Minneapo-
lis-based filmmaker and writer from the
small town of Hutchinson, Minnesota.
He loves exploring different genres and
mediums, always seeking creative and fun
ways to tell stories.

Elena Laskowski (she/her) is a senior
studying creative writing and English at
Hamline University. You can find her
work in Hamline’s Fulcrum Journal and
Untold Magazine, as well as the horror
webzine Dark Recesses. Outside of writing,
she enjoys biking, breakfast foods, and
porch-sitting.

Evan Schwarz (he/him) is a senior En-
glish and linguistics student from Chaska,
Minnesota. His work, in both poetry and
prose, explores themes of remembrance,
family, and nostalgia.

Gavia Boyden (she/her) is a poet from
Washington. She attends Macalester Col-
lege where she is majoring in English. Her
work, which focuses on nature, humanity,
and interactions between the two, can be
found online and in various journals.

Gracia Larsen-Schmidt (she/her) is a
senior at St. Olaf College majoring in
English with multiple concentrations too
long to list. She works as a writing tutor,
statistics research fellow, and anthropology
student researcher. She is president of Ag-
nes A Cappella and a captain of the cross
country team.

Josie Tregembo (she/her) is a freshman
honors student at the University of
Minnesota pursuing a degree in English
and psychology, with a minor in creative
writing. She is dedicated to crafting a
variety of poems and fictional stories in
hopes of becoming a professional author
after college.

Kendall Gabos (she/her) is a writer,
photographer, and storyteller who seeks
to share diverse experiences in all kinds
of mediums. She focuses on women’s
health, mental illness, and the human
experience. She pushes the boundaries
of craft, form, and expression to open
conversations of change.

Lauren Wander (she/her) is an English
and business student at the University of
Minnesota, Twin Cities, graduating in
May of 2027. She is currently employed
as an editing and publishing intern at
the American Academy of Neurolo-

gy and is enthusiastic about building
professional connections in the fields of
publishing, literature, and media.

Lila Coval is a first-year student at St.
Olaf College and is excited to have their
work published in Zhe Tower for the sec-
ond time! Aside from writing, they’re a
member of the St. Olaf tennis team, love
bugs, and are interested in linguistically
imposed divides between humans and
nature.

Lily Tuttle is a freshman from Stough-
ton, Wisconsin. She intends to major in

anthropology.

Madelyn Valento is a senior at the
University of Minnesota studying an-
thropology and creative writing. In her
free time, she reads, writes, and plays a
lot of video games, often with her twin
brother, editor, and hopefully someday
co-author Mario.

Mack Brusca (they/them) is a recent
graduate from the University of Min-
nesota with a degree in English and
creative writing. They love to write weird
and speculative fiction and are pursuing
a career as a game writer. Mack spends
all of their free time spoiling their dog,
Olive.

Max Pritchard (he/him) is a senior
English major at the University of
Minnesota, Twin Cities. In his free time,
he loves reading, writing, performing
improv, and playing TTRPGs with
friends—learning and storytelling, in
short!

Nico Sacco (he/him) is currently in the
BFA acting program at the University of
Minnesota, Twin Cities. He is a proud
first-generation immigrant from South
America, whose passion for representing
profound themes and diverse perspec-
tives is visible throughout his contempo-
rary works.

Nicodemus Zinos (he/him) is in his
second year at Augsburg University. He
is in the process of getting his BA in film
theory and a minor in creative writing,
and he hopes to make a career out of his
passion for both someday.

Noah Uphus (he/him), a senior at the
University of Minnesota Duluth, is cur-
rently using his art as an outlet to express
his revulsion with the present state of the
U.S. government. Through photogra-
phy, fashion, and digital design, his work
reflects his perspective on contemporary
political issues.

Nora Hitchcock (she/her) is a Minne-
sota-based artist exploring themes of the
inner child and concepts of “home”. She
is interested in art as a way to capture and
preserve memories using imagined char-
acters and scenes. Taking scenes from real
life, she adds ethereal elements to create
mystical environments.

Olivia Hebblewhite is a senior studying
environmental studies and English at St.
Olaf College in Northfield, Minneso-

ta. She draws inspiration not only from
poetry—all styles, eras, and genres, from
Shakespeare's sonnets to haiku to modern
confessional poetry—music, dance, the
natural world, and linguistics, but from
their points of intersection.

Rachel Small (she/her) is a fourth-year
student studying English at the Universi-
ty of Minnesota with minors in creative
writing and sustainability studies. Her
essay “The Mudroom’” was published in
The Tower’ 2024 issue.

Sakthika Vijay (she/her), a Minneso-

tan author, has been scribbling stories
since she could hold a pen—on napkins,
magazines, anything. She loves exploring
nostalgia and young love in her writing.
Currently studying management informa-
tion systems at Carlson, her next book,
Jasmine Flowers and Pounds of Sugar, hits
shelves this fall.

Sammi Bergren (she/her) is a senior at the

University of Minnesota studying cellular
organismal physiology and art. She ex-
plores the intersection of science and na-
ture through sculpture and painting. Her
work reflects on humanity, biology, and
the ecological challenges we face, inviting

reflection on our connection to the natural

world.

Sheena Vang (she/her) is a Hmong Min-
nesota-based artist currently pursuing her
Bachelor of Arts. Her work is inspired by
animated films, fantasy worlds, and the
delicate beauty of life expressed through
vibrant, reflective compositions. Recently,
her series, Reflection of Heritage: A Family
Narrative, was displayed at the ANAM-
NESIS Exhibition.

Shenali DeSilva’s (she/her) work serves
as a visual diary, capturing the zeitgeist
through vivid expressions of emotion,
especially those we often suppress. Using
acrylic on canvas, she blends surrealism,
cartoon-inspired imagery, and the un-
canny, exploring themes of Sri Lankan
identity, femme sexuality, and playful yet
unsettling motifs.

Soleil Anthony (she/her) is an artist and
student at the University of Minneso-
ta, Twin Cities. She is pursuing a dual
degree in developmental psychology and
fine arts. She is of African American and
Hispanic descent and is from Shakopee,
Minnesota. Soleil’s preferred mediums
are acrylic paint and mixed media.

Solveigh Goldsmith (she/her) is a
freshman at the University of Minnesota
studying graphic design. Her artwork is
inspired by her Scandinavian heritage
and the classic styles of the masters. She
is a self-taught artist who paints in acryl-
ic on canvas boards. When she is not
creating art, she can be found reading,
traveling, or spending time with family
and friends.

Vee Wing (any/all) is a sophomore
linguist and musician studying here at
the U. The piece “Calculator” utilizes
knowledge merged from both back-
grounds, as well as a touch from digital
drawing.

William Farley is a Junior at the Universi-
ty of Minnesota studying Political Science
and Sociology of Law, Criminology, &
Justice with an emphasis on Policy Analy-
sis. He is also pursuing a minor in Leader-
ship. His creative works focus on themes
of bureaucracy and institutional perfor-
mativity as inspired by his own experience
working in and interacting with bureau-
cratic systems.